


Broken Hearts and Lost Spirits

by SilverVelvet12



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Bisexual Stan Marsh, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay, Gay Kyle Broflovski, Heavy Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sexuality, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, south park - Freeform, south park fanfiction, style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverVelvet12/pseuds/SilverVelvet12
Summary: After the death of his best friend, Kyle isn't doing well. He feels like he's lost a part of himself that he will never get back and to make things worse he starts to blame himself for letting Stan go so easily. He's scared and alone until one strange night, he sees Stan's ghost-like figure in the corner of his bedroom informing him that he's the only person who can save him from fading away entirely. Willing to do anything for his deceased best friend, Kyle agrees to deliver Stan's last words to his loved ones to make amends. But the more people he communicates with for his friend, the more he realizes maybe he didn't know that much about Stan Marsh after all.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is just discussing notes and disclaimers for this new story. If you have any questions I'm happy to answer them. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let everybody know, this chapter will have a graphic depiction of a panic attack and at the end, there will be Stan's suicide note. You don't have to read the note if you are uncomfortable with it and I will leave a note above where it starts so you can just skip over it. I hope you guys enjoy the first chapter!

At Stan's funeral, it rained from the gray cloudy sky, droplets cascading down onto the scene around us much like the tears that streamed down our stone-cold faces. I could only watch as his lifeless body was lowered into the wet earth as he laid in his casket, knowing that it would be the last time I would ever see him. I don't think that the whole idea of him being away from me forever registered in my mind until after the service when we finally made it to the reception. Looking back now while I am sitting still in the corner of the large room, my gaze strictly adverted to the floor beneath me, the whole funeral service seemed like one huge clouded blur and it still does up until this moment.

It feels like I am living my own nightmare right now, the shadows that once lurked on the walls of my bedroom at night now surrounding me and swallowing me whole. People are talking around me, exchanging small-talk and what not. Bringing up memories of Stanley Marsh and what he was like when he was still alive. Their chit-chat bounces off the walls of the room but the only thing I seem to hear is the pitter-patter of the rain against the fogged glass window echoing in the confines of my mind. I am as still as a statue, hunched over as I sit a paper plate full of untouched cheese and crackers clutched tightly in my hand. My mother told me to eat something at the reception before we got here because she's noticed how I haven't eaten anything today. But how could I? I can't enjoy a plate full of dried out cheese and stale crackers right after my best friend just died and all of his family and friends had to watch him be put six feet underground so casually.

My green eyes are wide and dry from not blinking for such a long time, as even doing a task as simple as blinking seems like too much effort right now for my shaken up nerves. It feels like every single time I close my eyes, I just see him. Stan lying on his back peacefully in the smooth professionally carved casket, his bright blue eyes that I knew too well closed as I would never be able to stare into them again. I don't want that image back in my mind right now, it's the last thing I want. And it frustrates me to no explanation that I can't stop thinking about it no matter how hard I try to. My shoulders are held high and the back of my neck feels like blades are being placed against the flesh because my muscles are so tense and tight. The hobble of footsteps that are heading towards my direction come close but I choose to ignore them as I just continue to listen to the nagging thoughts that circle around in my mind like dark fog.

"Kyle?" I hear the voice of my father call out but I am not physically able to look up at him, the pupils of my eyes just stay focused on the hardwood floor that the soles of my dress shoes are placed flatly against underneath the foldable chair I'm currently sitting on.

"What?" I croak out, my voice barely above a hushed whisper. This is the first time I've spoken all day.

"Are you ready for your speech? People seem to be settling down now." He tells me. Right, that goddamned speech I agreed to participate in. The speech where I have to stand up and speak to a large group of people about Stan as his own parents claim that I knew him even more than they really did. Shit.

"No..." I say, my voice empty and breathy, not really sounding like anything specific. Just a small sound that made its way out of the back of my throat to answer his question. Dad sighs deeply, his eyes still on my bent-over frame. I know that he's fed up with my spaciness and angst just like everyone else. I know he's worried I will never be the same after Stan's death after what I had to witness and see that dreadful day. I know he's worried that I will always be this shaken-up mess of depressing energy that can't stop thinking about what the fuck happened that night towards the end of July. I know he's worried because I'm worried just as worried as he is.

"Just let Sharon know when you are, she's in charge of everything right now." Being put in charge of your son's funeral, I can only imagine. "Just tell me if you need anything." He turns on his heel and leaves me behind to continue to drill holes into the ground with my shocked eyes. It feels like it takes all of my energy to slowly pull my teary green irises away from the glossy hard-wood to gaze upon the other funeral guests who surround the room.

I notice Kenny standing across the room, resting his tall lanky figure against the wall as he blankly looks into the empty space in front of him that is just occupied with air. Butters sits in a chair much similar to mine that is placed right next to the taller blonde, a plastic cup filled with cold iced water clutched in his hand, his short fingers tense around the thin breakable material. His usual rosy cheeks have faded into a sickly white and I wouldn't be surprised if he has stopped eating as well just like me. He's always been sensitive, I can't imagine how much this is affecting him right now. Cartman is right by the snack table, but he refuses to grab anything which is a first for him and his greedy ways. Instead, he stands still as a statue with his arms crossed tightly across his wide chest. And people move around him quietly like he is an actual sculpture. They don't expect him to move, but who would?

I'm terrified to see Stan's family as I've been avoiding them ever since we found out he didn't make it right after he was rushed to the hospital. So I don't look for them even if that is cowardly of me, but instead, my gaze just unintentionally falls on Sharon as she is hurrying around, teary-eyed and flustered. She speaks to multiple guests who are attending the reception, faking a smile, and thanking them for coming. Her shoulders sinking even more with each mention of Stan that is brought up in conversation. She wipes her fingers gently under the rims of her eyes, trying her best not to break down in front of everyone. At least she's actually communicating with people along with everyone else, unlike me. Some funeral guest I am. I hear her mention to one person that Shelly is outside, getting a fresh breath of air for the first time in a few days. I can only imagine where Randy is given the fact he left the reception early before everyone else. I have no idea why he would do so, but I'm afraid that if I asked I wouldn't be left with a valid answer.

Sharon makes awkward and strained eye-contact with me from across the room and I practically flinch at the way our destroyed pupils lock. I quickly turn my head so I am now looking away but it's too late, she already saw me staring and now the sound of her nearing footsteps invades my senses like a virus. "Kyle?" She calls out my name and I thickly swallow.

"Hi..." I greet her quietly, not being physically able to bring myself to say anything else. She notices my tense energy but chooses not to say anything because she probably knows that will only make things worse. She shifts her body weight from one foot to the other awkwardly.

"Hey, how are you?" She asks kindly, clearly worried about the broken shape I am in right now. I don't blame her if I'm sincere. I haven't had one night of good sleep for an entire week, so dark circles have developed underneath my eyes against my pale complexion looking like dark splotches of purple paint against a blank canvas, and as I mentioned before, I've been eating significantly less ever since everything happened so my cheeks appear more sunken in and thin. I'm wearing a nice outfit that is classy and makes me look good, however no matter how nice it is it will never cover up how hurt and destroyed I truly am.

"I don't know," I answer, because in all honestly I really don't know how to feel right now. There are just so many different things going on in my head with so many combined emotions I don't know which one to choose. Am I sad? Am I angry? Am I traumatized? Am I all three combined?

She nods her head understandingly and purses her thin lips tightly. "I wanted to talk with you before you spoke to everyone today if that's okay." In response, I bow my head in a tight sign of signifying that would be fine. Even though I don't want to talk to anyone for days on end right now, I have to at some point.

"I-I wanted to thank you, Kyle. For always being there for him" She tells me gratefully referencing my friendship with Stan. The best friend I will never be able to see again no matter what I do. Was I always really there for him though? Was I? "I b-believe that he stayed alive so long because of you, you helped him through a lot of different things that he struggled with."

I didn't help him through his nagging thoughts that were like evil blades slicing across his flesh that would feed him lies about himself like toxic poison. I didn't help him through his depressive episodes that would invade his entire life like a suffocating gas. I tried to help, but I didn't and for that reason, because I didn't try hard enough he's not here anymore. Sharon doesn't have a son and I don't have a best friend, and it's all my fault. If I had been stronger and stayed with him, he would still be here right now and this whole dreadful funeral would just be a nightmare.

"And for that reason, because you were there for him for such a long time, I am so grateful." Her voice cracks and I stay still. But I wasn't. She's lying to herself. What she says next crushes me and the exhausted heart that is slowly beating in my chest.

"You almost saved him..." But I didn't. And because I didn't, I deserve all the blame for his death.

I could have easily saved him from himself, I could have spent the night before he did it. I could have been with him to make sure he didn't do it, or at least just keep him alive a little longer. I could have done anything to save him. But I chose to keep my distance and because I did, he ended things. He let everything cave in on itself and overdosed on those pills, taking his own life. I blink my wide eyes and then grit my teeth tensely when the memory of discovering his lifeless body flashes once again in the back of my mind.

"I'm so sorry," I blankly tell her, ignoring the fact that she doesn't even seem to understand my apology. Why isn't she mad at me? Why isn't she telling me what I could have done?! Doesn't she realize I could have stopped him more than anyone else?

I shakily stand up and it feels like I almost pass out due to my clouded mind and my lack of nutrition these past couple of days. My knees wobble and I step to the side as a way to try and move around her. The way guilt consumes me from communicating with her is too much to handle. God, I'm such a coward. From across the room, Dad seems to notice that I have finally managed to stand up as he starts to speak to announce that I'm going to now give my speech. I don't understand a word he says however as it just comes out as white noise through my mind like my head is being held underwater. I can't help but flinch when I feel Sharon place her hand on my shoulder as a way to comfort me, but in the end, it just seems to shake up my nerves even more. "Good luck." She says before scurrying away before I can do anything else.

Everyone is looking at me now, staring into my figure. Do they know? Do they know that I'm the one to blame for letting Stan go? I swallow thickly, trying my best to contain myself as I start to make my way to the front of the room that seems to be closing in on itself. My footsteps echo and it seems like it takes me a decade to finally reach the front of the room. Once I'm there for everyone to gaze upon, someone hands me a microphone. I don't even see who it is since I am so distracted with my own thoughts but given the way the person's hands are wrapped in the old material of brown fingerless gloves it's probably Kenny. I don't stare up at the blonde but I only nod in appreciation without making eye contact which seems to be enough for him as he backs away and takes a seat with the other people who are seated, waiting for me to start talking. I inhale gently before raising the microphone to my lips to start.

"Hi..." I breathlessly call out and a few more 'hellos' and 'good evenings' are tossed around throughout the audience awkwardly cutting through their previous silence like a knife through butter. I prepared a script to please the nagging thoughts of doing so in the back of my head but in the grand scheme of things I was stupid enough to leave the wrinkled piece of paper with my sloppy handwriting tattooed on the front back at home. So I suppose I'll just have to speak from memory.

"My name is Kyle," I introduce myself which is a pretty stupid thing to do given the fact that most of the people in this room know who I am in some sort of way. It is a small town after all. "And, um- I was Stan's best friend." Another stupid thing to say. Everyone already knows that I was because him and I were inseparable ever since preschool back when things seemed so much more simple.

Someone coughs which brings my gaze to the audience in front of me. I didn't want to look out on everybody but I guess it's too late now. Every single little word that I wrote on my script before coming here seems to dissolve from my memory as I steadily breathe in and out, trying to keep things under control. I guess I didn't realize how many people were here until now when I'm directly staring at them all from the front of the room. And all the varied expressions amongst the guests don't help either, some of them can't help but glare and grimace towards me while others give me small and assuring smiles of encouragement. If I'm completely honest, neither of the different expressions help me to continue speaking as their different looks just make me feel like some sort of exhibit at a museum. "Stan was..." I trail off and another person clears their throat in the background that I so badly want to fade out into white noise. "Stan was one of the kindest people I knew, he was never afraid to express that. I-I remember he would always comfort me and anyone else who was hurting, that was very important to him. I know that if he were here today, that's what he would be doing, comforting people and telling us not to cry. He always hated it when people were upset especially when it was over him, he would want to hug us and wrap his arm around our shoulders as he would reassure us everything was going to be okay even if it didn't seem like it." I clear my throat.

"I have a lot of memories of Stan because of how much time we spent together growing up, a lot of people liked to say that we were inseparable. And looking back now, I could understand why. Even when we were in our senior year of high school, he still stuck by my side despite our differences. Sometimes people would even call me 'Stanley' and people would call him 'Kyle' despite the fact that we looked so different from one another." A few people laugh however the stoic expression still remains on my face like it's stuck there. How the hell can you be laughing right now? What did I say that was so amusing to laugh at Stan's funeral? It's not like I meant what I said to be a joke or anything, so why are there different giggles being passed around throughout the crowd in front of me?

"I would get mad a lot for little reasons, I still do sometimes. And he was one of the only people who knew exactly what could calm me down." Who's going to be able to do that now that he's gone? "He wasn't just my best friend, but he was also a loving son and a good brother. He really loved his family even when things were rough." Someone sobs in the background, cutting through the white noise like a blade and I can only assume that it's Sharon. "He-He was so strong in so many ways sometimes I lose count. My friends and I- we would always do the dumbest things with him, like going to the local gas station and combining all of the slushie flavors, trying to create our own drink. It was his idea of coures, he came up with a lot of things like that to do all together. He was really creative like that, and he w-wanted to be an artist living in the city when he grew up. B-Because he loved to draw...."

I shakily breathe in. I knew this would happen, I knew I would slowly break down and start to trail off like I'm the only one in the room. Just quietly talking to myself. "He was so talented to, even if he didn't believe he was all the time. We were together so much, it seemed like there was a time when he was always by my side. To the point where it felt like he was a part of me. And I would do anything to get that feeling of being so close to someone back in my hands if I could. I knew everything about him, everything. His different crushes over the years, the beef he had with people in middle school, his secrets that he would always refuse to tell anyone else. There was one thing I never knew about, or maybe I did know it I just wanted to deny it until it was too late. I never knew he had so much darkness he let consume him, and I mean- I never knew this would happen, I never knew why he would d-do this to himself. I just n-never knew." I feel the corners of my eyes start to tear up, burning salty dew drops threatening to fall past my freckled cheeks.

"I could have- could have asked him about what he was feeling, or been there more so he could talk to me or just talk to anyone about what was going on in his mind. M-Maybe then he'd still be alive and with us today so he could comfort us all like I mentioned before. I-I-" It becomes harder and harder for me to breathe and tense dark energy falls over the audience as they realize what's happening. Why do I have to be having a panic attack now? In front of everyone so they can all watch me like I'm a social experiment of some kind. "I-I'm so sorry he isn't here anymore, I wish I could have saved him. There-There were so many things I never got to say and tell him...And now no one will ever be able to tell him anything. A-Anything." There's scattered mumbling across the crowd that doesn't go unnoticed by my senses.

"I-I'm almost done I just need to s-say that, I hope he's still doing well wherever he is. And I just hope that I w-will be able to see him again, I don't care when or where. Just somewhere again, that's all I want." A sob wracks through my entire body before I can stop it. "I'm s-so sorry to everyone here for not being able to save him when h-he needed me the most. I-I wish I could make it better, but I don't know how and I so desperately wish that I did. I d-don't know how things can be okay again now that he's gone forever." I clasp a hand over my mouth quickly as my shoulder shake and my once slow heartbeat races in my chest and beats like a drum. I have to get out of here, I need to run somewhere where I can breathe. Where I don't feel like I'm being ripped apart from the inside out.

"E-Excuse me-" I quickly say cutting myself off, letting my fingers go limp as they drop the mic. The device falls to the floor and a loud boom echoes through space as it crashes against my feet the speakers screeching with sound. I can feel everyone's eyes follow behind me, their pupils digging into the back of my skull as I run towards the exit. I crash through the tall wooden doors of the building and let myself free from it's confining walls, the cold breeze of weather and the droplets of rain consuming me whole. My feet take the lead over my body as I just keep running and running faster and faster trying to escape this hell that has changed everything. I want a new reality, a new haven where I can see Stan again or just somewhere the two of us could be safe. Someone calls my name in the distance but it just reflects off of me like a bullet bouncing from a bullet-proof vest as I keep moving until the building grows smaller and smaller until it's just a figment of a vision. My own hot tears combine with the rain droplets that fall down onto me from the grey clouds.

Why Stan? Why did you have to do it? I ask him in my mind, even though I know damn well he's not here anymore and he never will be. Why did you have to overdose on those goddamn pills, leaving your body for me to find later? Why did you have to finally cave in and take your own life, killing yourself and taking all of you away from us?

My knees buckle suddenly and I crash over, landing on the ground of the wet earth. I don't know how, but somehow my legs carried me to a nearby park that is empty due to the bad weather today. And ironically, it's the same park where Sharon and my own mother would take Stan and I when we were still little kids who knew nothing at all in life. When I fall, mud and grass stains the fancy material of my dress suit but that's the least of my worries right now. The rain grows louder and stronger as it becomes more intense, a loud boom of thunder shaking my surroundings. Lighting flashes in the sky like a flashlight, illuminating the damp trees that surround me at the moment. The clouds in the sky darken and grow larger as more rain falls from them casting down on my hunched-over form.

Before I can stop myself, a pained scream rips through my throat, letting out everything that I've been keeping in ever since Stan's suicide. I scream so loud my vocal cords ache and a few birds chirp as they fly away from tree branches and through the cloudy sky above me, trying to stay away from the unfamiliar and sudden loud sound. More thunder booms and crashes as my strained voice continues to tear through the suffocating air like an unraveling firework.

"Come back!" I demand, shouting at Stan even if he is dead. "Come back! Come back! Come back!" I fist a handful of grass in frustration as it's roots tear away from the damp earth and messy mud presses into the skin of my clenched hand.

"Please...." I croak out, my voice soar from letting such a vile and deranged scream rip out of me. I start to sob over and over again as it seems like my air flow is now being restricted. I collapse in on myself as the rain drills onto my back, causing my wet clothes to cling onto my body for dear life. I pound my fist against the ground like punishment before screwing my eyes shut, trying to shakily breathe in again.

Is this what Stan was feeling before he died? Is this the pain that caused him to end it all? The feeling of the world caving in as you can only watch it shrivel before you. I let out one more cry before I feel my limbs go limp and the pounding in my head go quiet.

Why did you have to leave me, Stan? Why?

\--

(This next part is Stan's suicide letter which you don't have to read if you don't feel comfortable. It's not super important to the plot, it's just a little bit of explanation and extra detail.)

Stan's Note--

A letter to my loved ones,

If you are reading this right now, I have most likely given in to all of my thoughts and feelings that I've been penting up much too long now. I've taken my own life and I know the effect it will have on the people I love. And for that reason, I am sorry.

I am sorry that things had to end like this but please understand it's not because I want to hurt anyone. It's because I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer go on like a normal person. My misery and sadness have come to an all-time high recently and I've realized that it's just not worth living my shitty life anymore.

I have always been slightly depressed but as I've gotten older it's just grown worse and worse to the point where getting out of bed every day seems like a burden. Please understand that I am not taking my own life because I hate anyone but instead I am doing this because I hate myself.

And when that hate grows to the point it feels like you can't even breathe anymore, what's the point of living on? What's the purpose of life if you just feel like a walking corpse wherever you go anyway?

I don't know where I will go after this is all over and I don't know if I really care. I just know that this world is too hard for me to live in.

I want my family to know that I will always love them and I want my friends to know that I am eternally grateful that they have stuck with me for so long. I also want all of you to know that I am doing this for my own personal reasons and my own choice that I have made.

Please know that I am in a better place now.

-Stanley M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I changed this chapter up a little bit while I was going over it. The changes are very subtle and if this is your second time reading it since January you probably haven't even noticed, but I changed a little bit with the speech and some other minor details while I was editing it. Thank you guys so much for leaving all of the kudos! It means so much to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say that the beginning of this chapter is extremely triggering as it's a flashback to when Kyle finds Stan right after he overdosed. I will put a small note when the flashback is over so you can know where to continue reading if you skip over the next scene. I just wanted to let you guys know. :)

Flashback~

I push open the tall metal front door to Stan's mom's house as he's with her this week, although he's been with her for an extended period of time recently so maybe I should just say it's his house now. He's been avoiding his father ever since they got into that brutal fight recently, I still don't know what happened exactly as he has yet to tell me. But I do know that some very hurtful things were said between the two of them and they parted ways in a hurry before things could escalate physically. 

I'm so excited to see him, as it seems like forever since I have even though it was only a few days ago the last time we got together. A rush of butterflies brushes against the walls of my ribcage at the thought of just being around him and I smile to myself fondly. Maybe if we play a few random video games that would give me an excuse to sit close to him and nuzzle against his familiar warmth that manages to comfort me in an instant. I could really use that right now. 

Stan didn't rush to the door when I rang the doorbell a couple of times which isn't really strange for him nowadays given the fact he tends to stay in his room. It's been harder and harder to try and get him out of the house as he's just been so much less motivated compared to before. However on the flip side of things he has been able to draw and express himself through sketching a lot more because he's staying inside so much. He hasn't yet shown me any of his new work because he claims that it's not as good as it used to be and I wouldn't understand it. Maybe he will show me sometime soon. 

I step into the comforting presence of his house as my footsteps echo across the empty area as I start to head towards the staircase that leads to his familiar room. Sharon is currently at work and Shelly is at college so it's just the two of us, just like old times. The last time I was with Stan alone was a few weeks ago now which seems like decades ago now. I know it's not, but sometimes your mind plays those strange illusions to fool you. "Stan?" I call out but I don't receive a response in return. I shrug carelessly, thinking he just didn't hear me. His door is probably closed. I start to make my way up the stairs, my knees bending with each step I take as I near closer and closer to his bedroom. "Stan?" I call again but still don't hear him answer. Why is there this weird sinking feeling in my stomach? "Dude, are you here?" I ask skeptically. Is he sleeping? "Stan?" 

"Stan! C'mon, this isn't funny." I'm not becoming frustrated, but I am starting to wonder if he is even home right now given the way he is refusing to answer me after every single time I call out his name. I can feel my stomach churn for no valid reason as I reach his door and knock my balled fist against the flat surface of the wood, a small knock making a bounce of sound vibrate against the walls. There's not a response to my knocking either I notice. I sigh to myself and as I come to the conclusion that at this point I should just barge in and see what the fuck is going on. He's probably just listening to his blasting music really loud on headphones as a way to drown things out while he draws various things in his sketchbook, which has happened multiple times before so I wouldn't be surprised if that's why everything around the house seems so quiet and off. I wrap my slender fingers around the cool steel of the gold doorknob and turn it to the right while I push the door open. 

My entire body shuts down and my mind goes blank like a dying heart monitor upon what I see in front of my eyes. Stan is lying on his back against the carpet beneath him with his arms and legs limp at his sides. His chest is arched up towards the ceiling and his skin that is usually rosy and colored is pale and sickly like he hasn't eaten in days. His blue eyes that I've grown to love and know so well are open but blank like and lifeless as they are rolled to the back of his skull. His neck is craned so his head is lying to the side at an uncomfortable angle. I don't fail to notice the opened bottle of pills that are loosely held in his hand that hangs to the side of his frame. A few of the small medicine capsules have spilled out from the opened top and onto the carpeted floor next to him. It takes a minute for me to react and realize what this entire scene means, but once the realization sinks in, I run over to him at the speed of light and fall onto my knees at his side. "Oh my god...." 

"Stan?" My voice is so high-strung and broken I almost don't even recognize it. My hands shake frantically as I reach towards his broad shoulders and start to shake him gently, maybe he'll wake up. Maybe he's just playing a joke on me. Maybe this is just a bad dream that I will wake up from. "Th-This isn't funny! Stop it! Wake up! Wake up, dammit!" 

He doesn't budge at all, I don't even feel a muscle twitch. I lift him up lightly so I'm now holding him in my arms, clutching onto him for dear life. I stare into his sea-blue eyes with my own shocked green ones that have widened to twice their usual size, however much to my dismay, he doesn't look back at me. Even though his irises are even with my own he's not looking at anything, he's just blankly staring into me. But he has to look at me, he has to. 

"St-Stan! Stanley!" Maybe calling him by his full name will snap him out of this. It's worth a try, anything is at this point. "Look at me! Just look at me!!" I desperately tell him but he doesn't listen, instead, he just keeps that blank expression with those dead eyes that dig into me. 

"Goddammit! Stop it! This isn't fucking funny!!" I shake him harder this time, my fingernails digging into his shoulder blades hard enough to leave small imprints in the shape of crescent moons across his flesh. I can feel my breaths being constricted as I try to breathe in but I'm unable to as the decorated walls of his room close in on itself. It hits me like a bag of fucking bricks, he did this to himself. Of course, he did, who else would be capable of causing himself to overdose on pills. And I'm the only one who can save him at this rate, I have to call an ambulance. People can survive this, many people can. He can be one of them. Right? 

"Stan, p-please hold on, okay?" I grab onto his hand and intertwine our fingers, my slender ones coiling around his own course fingertips that are still limp as ever. "Don't let go of me...." With my other hand, I slip my phone out of the pocket of my jacket made from polyester as I shakily dial 911 and then raise it to my ear. 

The receiver at the other line is calm and reserved as she asks me what my problem is. "M-My friend- he- he" I nearly choke on my own words as I frantically speak. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down." She says with that same monotone voice. "Is your friend in a stable condition?" 

"N-No! He overdosed on p-pills, I think he tried to h-hurt himself." I desperately explain still clutching onto him tightly as he continues to not react to any of our surroundings. I tell her the address of Stan's house in a string of crowded words so a paramedic can reach us easily with no struggle. 

"Okay, we'll send an ambulance right now to bring him to the hospital. Does he have a pulse?" My hand goes straight to his throat on instinct as I bring my bony index finger and middle finger to the spot right underneath his jaw and ear as I try to feel the familiar comforting thump of his pulsing blood flow. I feel like vomiting when I don't feel the tap of his heart against the skin of my fingertips however as I continue to press them against his flesh, there is a small beat of his pulse that is so light it's barely even there. But it's something, and that something counts for the world right now. 

"Y-Yes! Yeah, he-he has a pulse right now," I can hear the clicking and clacking of a computer's keyboard on the other end of the line coming from the receiver. "But he's still unconscious." 

"Sir, please stay by your friend's side for now and make sure he stays safe. An ambulance should be there any minute now..." She reassures me before hanging up, the end of the line fading away with a sudden click. 

"Stay with me, Stan....please," I beg breathlessly, but still, there is no response. 

It feels like I blink and an ambulance pulls up quickly to the front of the house as a few paramedics burst through the unlocked front door. The loud and abrupt sound of their footsteps invades my hearing as their tall silhouettes rush through the doorframe of his bedroom that the two of us are sheltering ourselves in like a safe haven. I can hear them ask me various questions and what-not as to what happened but it's like every single sentence flies over me, their words come out like my head is being held underwater. Everything blends together and the room spins around me at the moment, how do they expect me to answer anything at this moment? 

I suck in a sharp breath that wracks through my lungs as one of them shoves me off of his body in a hurry. One really strong and tall paramedic picks Stan up from the carpeted floor like he weighs nothing before the towering man turns away and starts to take Stan out of the room and downstairs. I reach out my hand when he's taken away from me, crying out unintelligible nothings. 

Everything spins around me as I somehow manage to pick myself up off the ground and follow closely behind as Stan's limp body is carried carelessly out of the house. He's strapped down onto a stretcher before me, his arms and legs being tightly secured against the plush material of what he rests on. I hurry over to him and try to reach for the familiar warmth of his hand, but once my fingertips are placed against his skin. I'm not greeted with warmth, but instead, I'm greeted with cold. A cold that is unfamiliar and unwelcoming, a cold that I instantly hate with all my heart due to what it means. I don't want to say what it means, I can't say it. 

"You're going to be okay...I p-promise." I reassure Stan, but I don't know who I'm talking to more. Him or myself. 

Flashback is over~

I shoot up from the soft mattress of my bed, my chest heaving, and my entire body painted in a cold sweat. Heavy breaths cause my shoulders to shake so hard it almost hurts as I can feel the familiar feeling of sickness invade everything. I need to vomit now. My hand reaches for the plastic bucket that my mother placed by the side of my bed, knowing and understanding completely that this would be one of my many symptoms of seeing what I had to see that dreadful day in July. It makes sense that you would throw up after discovering your nearly dead best friend on the floor of his bedroom, but I had no idea I would be vomiting this much and it would be this awful. I do what I need to and cringe while setting the bucket back down at the side of my bed. 

I swallow and almost feel like barfing again at the foul taste that remains on my tongue. I don't however which is a relief when I roll over in bed and pull the soft covers of my bed over my head like it will magically cause me to disappear so I can be freed from this hell. Maybe then I would be reunited with Stan wherever he is. 

I've been having extremely graphic nightmares more recently, that's the reason my nights of sleep have been so restless. Sleep used to be something that I could look forward to, an escape where my busy and anxious mind would just turn off and finally shut up. But not recently. I'm not really having nightmares the more I think about it, they are more of just visions of flashbacks. Finding Stan overdosed in his room, the ambulance ride to the hospital that was such a blur, watching him going into immediate surgery to get his stomach pumped, everyone shouting at me and asking what the hell happened and not being able to physically answer, and of course, the crushing words coming from the doctor saying that he didn't make it.

Familiar tears cloud my vision but I don't even blink as they seem so common and normal now, it's basically routine at this point to wake up and then instantly cry after throwing up at all the terrible memories that flash through my mind. I had so many things I never got to tell him.

I hear the sound of hushed voices outside of my room and I don't have to think twice to know that it's Mom and Dad telling Ike to just give me my space even though I just woke up and he would usually burst in and wish me good morning. I hear him whine and protest before being sharply cut off by Mom. I can't hear what happens next as I just shove my face further into my plush pillow in a sad attempt to drown everything out but it's hard to notice the harsh slam of a door nearby. I breathe out through my nose and close my eyes, one single tear streaking across the bridge of my nose when I do so. 

"Did he throw up again?" I hear Dad ask Mom louder than he probably should as she shushes him crossly. 

"I think he did. Poor thing." She notes quietly. I hate it when people call me that, it means I'm weak and can't handle myself. I'm sick and tired of people's empathy, they should be empathetic for Stan. Not for me. He's the one who died, not me. I can hear her step into the presence of my room as I continue to ignore her and pretend like neither one of them are even in the same house as me. I can feel the mattress of my bed sink when she sits against it, leaning towards me and pulling down the heavy covers that I use as a shield against the world to reveal my tear-streaked face. 

"Good morning, Bubbeh." She greets me softly, so much pity masked behind her voice it practically hurts. "Did you sleep okay?" 

"No. I had another bad dream." I confess and she breathes out sadly at this. She knows that I've been having nightmares more than anyone else as it's either her or Ike who has to rush into my room at 3 AM and comfort me. The first couple of nights after Stan's suicide were the worst as I would scream bloody murder and beg for him to come back, it slowly started to become less intense but they still are triggering. Now my reactions are either vomiting or bawling my eyes out or sometimes even a combination of both. I'm just glad that I can breathe again after waking up because before for a while I couldn't. 

"I'm so sorry." She apologizes for nothing in particular and I only shrug. Waking up from nightmares is just kind of expected every night at this point, I don't know why she's sorry. "Do you want me to make you some breakfast? I could make your favorite french toast to start off your day, I know you'd like that." She offers but I shake my head in a silent decline. 

"I'm not hungry," I tell her and once again she sighs. I know that she wants me to get out of the house and be normal, try and continue on with my life and move past this dark fog that is clouding over every single little detail in my everyday life right now. I know that she wants me to go to college just like all of the other kids my age right now, and that was my initial plan before everything happened. Now I don't know what to do. I just feel like I'm physically incapable to do any of that right now. 

"You have to eat something, Kyle. Please." I still don't say anything as I feel her start to run her fingers through my hair, trying to comfort me. "You have a therapy appointment later today and I want you to be ready for that." I groan at the thought of therapy. I forgot that I even had a therapist there for a minute. Because apparently due to the fact that I have anxiety and panic attacks every now and then I'm automatically unhinged and I have to sit in the cramped room of some psychology office where I talk about my problems for an hour. 

"Do I have to go?" I ask distantly as Mom continues to rake her fingers through my locks of hair that are still messy from rolling around against the fabric of my pillow all night. 

"Yes, Bubbeh. You didn't go last week or the week before that, I think it will be good to finally get out of the house." Her reasoning is weak given the fact that I just got out of the house a few days ago for Stan's funeral. 

"I got out at Stan's funeral on Tuesday." She purses her lips and now I'm realizing that maybe it wasn't such a good idea bringing up that whole event because I had an anxious mental breakdown in front of at least twenty people.

"Yes, you did. And I'm very proud of you for that reason, but I think it would be good to talk to Ms. Johnson about your speech and-"

"Nothing happened. I just got anxious." I defend but I know more than anyone else that defending my actions in this situation is useless. Just ask the twenty people who watched me have a panic attack on the spot, I don't' think the would defend me. 

"I think you got more than anxious, dear. Your father and I were talking about what happened, and we both think that you had an episode. I really think that it would be good to talk to Ms.Johnson because she knows about this sort of thing and she can give you ways to cope with it." The only person who actually knew what to do when I was having an episode was Stan, my best friend. He knew all the right ways to calm me down and hold me tightly so I felt safe in his arms until my mind stopped rushing and things would go back to normal. 

"The only person who can help me with this sort of thing is Stan. And Stan's not here anymore now, is he, Mom?" Her eyebrows arch in sympathy and she purses her lips, what is she supposed to say to that?

"Maybe you could also talk to Ms.Johnson about Stan, I'm sure she would know how to help you through this." Would she? Would she really know exactly what to do to make all of this pain go away. Does she really know how to bring Stan back?

"She can't bring him back, so what good is she?" I ask no one in particular as I ghost my knuckles over the soft sheets of my bed depressingly. Mom apologizes underneath her breath one more time like it's becoming a routine that she participates in whenever she doesn't know what else to say. After the single distant word falls from her lips she slowly pushes her body weight off of the plush mattress so she can leave me to get ready for my dreaded appointment. 

"Please just get ready to go out, I can try and make your appointment shorter but you still need to go. And please eat something, Bubbeh. It doesn't have to be a lot but it has to be something. I'll drive you to the therapy office when you're ready to leave." 

And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves me behind in the shallow darkness of my bedroom. 

\--

I hate Ms. Johnson's therapy office so much. It's so dull and boring. If you were to look up the word bland in a dictionary, it would just be a picture of the room I'm sitting in right now to learn more 'coping mechanisms' that I will probably only use once in my life. I have nothing against Ms. Johnson, in fact, I think she's pretty cool as a person. However, I am against what she stands for because I despise the thought of therapy with every last fiber in my body. Maybe it works for some people in some sort of way, but how is my anxiety supposed to be cured by going to an appointment every week that I dread, which just causes me more anxiety in the long run. 

Ms. Johnson is your stereotypical therapist, with the notepad that she holds between her hands and everything. Her hair is usually pulled back with two strands of dark hair pulled out to frame the sides of her face that always seems so hard to read. She usually asks me basic questions like, "How has your week been?" and "Have you had any episodes of anxiety I should know about?" Just the same usual. She taps her foot repeatedly as she waits for me to finally open my mouth to speak, but all I can really focus on at the moment is the repeated clicking of the clock that is plastered against the painted wall. I'm doing the same thing I was doing at the funeral a few days ago, just staring droningly at the floor to the point where it looks like I'm trying to shoot laser beams out of my pupils. 

"I'm ready to listen whenever you are ready to speak, Kyle," Ms. Johnson tells me, and even though her voice is patient and smooth, I can tell by her energy that she is growing tense with my distant behavior. 

"I don't know what to say," I confess because if I'm completely honest, I really don't know what to say. Or maybe I do there's just been so much going on I can't choose just one thing. 

"Well, would you like to talk about your friend? I haven't seen you since he passed away, and I'm terribly sorry that all happened. No one should go through the pain of losing their friend as you did, and especially at such a young age too. I think it would help to talk about it, yes?" I'm so sick of people telling me that. I know that it was fucking hard, and I know that people are sorry. I probably know more than anyone else, so why do people have to keep reminding me? They may think it helps at the moment, but guess what? In the end, it only hurts me more because you are just rubbing something in my face that I already know. So just stop it. 

"No, I'm tired of hearing that." She tilts her head to the side and jots something down in the notepad she holds against her pencil skirt. 

"You're tired of hearing what?" She asks while cocking her brow, I know what she's doing. She's just trying to get anything out of me because she knows that I'm not going to open up. She's just doing the bare minimum in this situation just like I am. 

"I'm tired of people saying that they are sorry. And I'm tired of people saying that I shouldn't have gone through all of this. Because I know. I know no one should have to go through what I am going through right now. Because it fucking sucks, and when people tell me things like that it just rubs salt in the wound." I explain while the point of her pen effortlessly flies across the lined notepad paper as she writes and nods her head at the same time. 

"That's good to know, thank you for telling me, Kyle." I just continue to stare her down and not say anything in return. I'm just grateful she didn't yell at me for cursing. She breathes in through her nose sharply before abruptly bringing her hand away from her notebook to shift her attention back to me as I sink further and further into the uncomfortable couch I sit on. 

"Your parent's mentioned to me before we met that you had an episode at your friends funeral, what was that like?" Shit. I knew she was going to ask me that question and because I had the knowledge that she was at some point I went over the different ways I could respond over and over again in the back of my head before arriving here today. But just my luck, once she asks me this dreaded question all of my answers to avoid this question somehow manage to fade away to the back of my memory. 

"I don't know..." Really these 'episodes' that my family and Ms. Johnson keep bringing up are just more severe panic attacks that can get pretty out of hand sometimes under certain circumstances. They are usually made a bigger deal than they actually are which annoys me to no explanation, but I have to deal with it because if I speak out I know that my reasoning will just be dismissed as 'me not wanting to get better' so I've learned to keep my mouth shut. Believe it or not, the 'episode' I had at the funeral was pretty minor and calm compared to some of my other ones. 

The first anxiety attack I had was when I was in the fifth grade right before a test. I studied for days on end before it came around, and even after the endless hours of binging on books and information I still didn't feel prepared for the actual test itself. My dad brought it up to me that morning while I was eating breakfast to make conversation and it set my entire morning off from there. On the way to school while I drove in Mom's car it actually felt like it was an hour-long car ride instead of the usual five minutes it would take to arrive at the school. My hands started to shake and it became hard to think straight as I entered the school building and because it was my first panic attack I had no idea what the hell was going on which just scared me even more. I didn't eat anything at lunch and at recess, I was way too distracted to do anything and the growing sinking feeling of nervousness in my stomach became so intense I was practically immobile. 

Finally, when the test came around I couldn't take it anymore. I started to cry, and I mean full-on bawl my eyes out until I can't see anymore cry. It didn't help that the other students in the room started to stare me down because I was only drawing more attention to myself much to my dismay. I remember knitting my small fingers into my hair underneath my hat and yanking on the red strands as a way to try and calm myself down but the pain only made things worse. Finally, I just got fed up with everything around me and everything going on in my mind I decided to smash my forehead against the surface of my desk as hard as I possibly could with the blank test still lying in front of me. I went home that day with a painful head concussion and a big fat zero on my test. 

So I guess you could say my most recent episode wasn't that bad given the fact that I didn't have a literal head injury afterward. "How severe do you think your episode was?" Ms. Johnson's voice brings me back to reality and I soon remember that I am no longer in the fifth grade anymore. 

"Um, I don't know. I think it was mild." I respond wearily. 

"Did you hurt yourself?" She tries to clarify because sometimes I do actually end up causing physical injuries for myself. Believe it or not, that time in the fifth grade was not the only time I have inflicted injuries onto my body in an anxious mess. It was the most severe however, I usually don't give myself full-on skull fractures. They tend to upset my mother, that was more of a one-time thing just for her sake. 

"No, not this time." A small smile approaches her lips as she quickly sketches something down on her lined notebook paper once again. 

"Good job, I'm proud of you." She congratulates and I do have the urge to smile. I don't however because I just feel like right now is not an appropriate time to given the circumstances as to why I'm here. "Did you use any of the coping mechanisms the two of us went over together for when you do have a panic attack?" 

"Like what?" I distantly ask, my absent behavior luckily doesn't seem to really bother her too much as she's too distracted with her happiness about how 'minor' my episode was at the funeral. I wonder if she would be this happy if she knew that I also decided to scream into the abyss of an empty park in the rain like a psychopath after breaking down in front of an entire group of people. 

"Like taking deep breaths, distracting yourself with a fun hobby you enjoy, reaching out to a friend..." She lists and I only swallow because what I did to cope falls under none of those categories. Unless you consider running like you're being chased by a mad man a fun hobby. 

"I didn't have the chance to." I blankly respond and she nods repeatedly. 

"Oh. Well, that's okay, that's okay. Just try and remember next time, I suppose." She glances at the clock quickly before focusing back on me. "It looks like our time is almost up for the day, Kyle. Do you have any other questions for me before I let you go home?" 

I would be able to drive home after this but my parents felt the need to suspend my driver's license for a period of time after Stan died because of the amount of trauma they knew I would have to go through and I guess they were right to some extent. It doesn't help that I also have crippling anxiety attacks like I mentioned before and they've only gotten worse ever since Stan passed away so if I were to take my car and recklessly drive somewhere that might later on become a problem. It still sucks however that I can no longer do basic things like run errands and drive myself home from therapy. 

"Yeah, I did actually." She stands up straight at this, clearly excited that I'm the one reaching out in conversation for once and not her. "Will it always be like this?" 

"What do you mean?" She furrows her eyebrows in confusion. 

"Will everything always be so dark now that he's gone? I mean it just feels like because he's gone now all of the color in my world is washed away and I can't do anything to bring it back. It took me a long time to realize that he was my color, and I didn't really know what he was until he...did it." I explain and there is a long period of strange silence that lingers between the two of us once I finish. 

"If he was your color if he was that important to you to the point he made up such a huge part of your life, are you sure that there was more in between the two of you than just friendship?" She asks me and now it's my turn to be confused. She seems to sense this confusion as she gestures her hands around to explain what she's saying. 

"What I'm trying to say here is I don't think that most friendships carry that much importance that your relationship with Stanley did. I mean sure, other friendships have their importance, like your other friends Eric and Kenny, they are very important to you. However, I don't think they shared the same type of relationship that you and Stanley shared. You've mentioned Stanley to me many times before and whenever you do so, you go on a roll with it. I sometimes have to even step in so you don't talk about him our entire appointment. You get this content look in your eye and I think you still do, because he is your color." 

"He was just my best friend..." I trail off even though I know she's right. He was way more than that, I just never want to admit it. 

"He was your best friend, but I think he was also something more. And there's nothing wrong with that, you just need to come to terms with that first before you can let more color back in your life. You need to first accept your true feelings for him to understand and grow so you can move on past this dark stage. Okay?" She asks me with her thin eyebrows raised.

"Okay," I tell her, but I'm still not really sure if I'm ready to do that. 

\--

The first thing I do when I get back home from therapy is scurried back up to my room before I can be noticed by anyone and pulled to the side to start a conversation with awkward small talk and whatnot. I just want sleep right now, I had no idea that getting out of the house for the first time in nearly a week would be so exhausting. I feel like I need to sleep for hours on end now to recover, however, I'm not even really looking forward to doing that given the fact I will probably just be disturbed with more nightmares while I try to get some shut-eye. Although that's not really new anymore so maybe I will be able to work my way through it. 

And lucky me, I fall asleep almost instantly as soon as I feel the skin of my cheek hit the plushness of my soft pillows. I'm kind of relieved that Mom didn't bother me with the thought of eating dinner, I think she knew that me finally managing to visit the therapist's office for the first time in two weeks was enough and she won't burden me with the requirement to stomach down a full plate of food. I sigh happily when I close my eyes and I feel all of my senses and nerves slowly shut down like I flipped a switch as the presence of sleep washes over me like cold water. 

I don't really have nightmares, but my dreams aren't exactly that fun and happy either. I dream about things like rain and clouds. Nothing else, just simple forms of gloomy weather that have been more common nowadays in South Park than ever before. I do wake up in the middle of the night however as my slow and bland dream manages to come to an eventual close. The green glow of the small numbers that are illuminated on the square alarm clock that sits flat on the nightstand next to my bed reads that the time is 3:46 AM. This is the most sleep that I've managed to get for the first time in a month and I would be lying if I said that it didn't feel good. It is a bit strange for me to wake up at almost four in the morning. I usually wake up at nine at the earliest so this is a weird change in my organized schedule that has never really occurred before. 

I squint my eyes as I raise the bright screen of my phone to my face for no reason in particular. I guess I'm just used to staring at my phone to be the first thing that's apart of my morning routine. I would be surprised if anyone else is up in the house and the last thing I want to do is wake them up and upset someone, so really the only thing I can do right now is to just stay in my room. Maybe I can fall back asleep if I try hard enough and just block out my busy mind that never seems to shut up, however that seems like much to effort right now. For a normal person that would be no problem at all because falling back asleep requires no effort, however for me it seems much harder than it probably should be. So I guess I'll just watch videos and whatnot on my phone and stare at the wall until the sun eventually rises. 

A couple of minutes pass through the dusk of the morning as I continue to do nothing in particular. My entire body tenses up on instinct however when I hear a sudden crash of clutter in the corner of my room along with a little bit of rustling. The weirdest part is that nothing is there, just more air that occupies the empty space. "What the fuck?" I mutter under my breath. 

I shake my head and avert my focus back to the bright white screen of my phone. That is until I hear another thing fall off of the wooden bookshelf that sits from me parallel to the other side of the room. By now my shoulders are held very high in fear. This is the type of shit that happens only in horror movies, and it doesn't help that it's around four AM in the fucking morning. Maybe I should try and go back to sleep. 

I place my phone back down on the nightstand and roll over in bed before pulling the thick covers up over my head like I'm hiding from whatever the hell is in my room that is causing random objects to fall. I grit my teeth harshly when I hear the sound of knocking on wood from across the room like someone is trying to catch my attention. My anxiety hits an all-time high when I hear my name being called by a low voice that feels all too familiar. 

"Kyle...." Stan?

I fling the covers off of my head and I shoot up straight so I'm sitting and I almost hurl at what I see. I can see clearly with my own two eyes, Stan's silhouette glowing much like a ghost in a cliche movie across my room as he stands tall, all of the colors he once held now washed away and faded as he stares at me with wide eyes. He seems to be just as shocked as I am at the moment which shouldn't be a relief but for some reason it is. His entire body is almost see-through with a soft bluish-gray hue that almost glows in the dark lighting of the room. It's only the irises of his once-lively that hold the only color, the deep sea blue that I grew to love. 

The two of us stare at each other for what seems like forever and it seems like we're both equally shocked at what the hell is going on. My green eyes are widened to the size of saucers to the point where they could probably reflect light and his seems empty yet welcoming somehow all at the same time. No, this can't be real. Stan is dead. 

"You can see me?" He asks with a soft tone of voice, a shocked undertone that is glazed over also present in his words. His voice is just the same as it was before when he was alive, there's no difference to it whatsoever. However, just the fact that he is speaking to me is unsettling enough to bring a shrill scream out of the back of my throat. This must just be another nightmare. It has to be. There's no other explanation. 

My strained shout in fear seems to catch him off-guard as he raises his shoulders in one smooth and frightening movement. I'm honestly not sure which one of us is more afraid at the moment but it seems pretty close given both of our startled behaviors. He tries waving his practically see-through hands to calm me down as he says, "Wait! D-Don't scream, it's just me. Stan." This causes me to freak out even more due to the fact that yes, he is Stan. And Stan is supposed to be dead. Even if I don't want him to be, he is. So whoever this is in front of me trying to calm me down as they flail their arms in defense is just a terrifying figment of my imagination. 

"N-No!" I cry out and screw my eyes shut like that will automatically make him go away. "Go away! You aren't real, y-you're supposed to be dead!" 

"I know I am! I'm just as confused as you are!" He helplessly tells me and I use all of my strength to open my tired eyes again. 

"You aren't real!" I basically scream and he flinches yet again as the sharp sound bounces off the painted walls of my bedroom. 

"Kyle...." He once again calls my name and this shatters my heart. I haven't heard my name fall from those lips in ages now, I thought I would be relieved when I heard it again. I thought that it would make me happy to hear my lost best friend call me by my name for one last time, but it doesn't. It makes things so much worse especially when it's under all the wrong circumstances. It just breaks me even more. I dig my fingernails into the soft skin of my palm as I clench my hands into tense balled fists. 

"NO!" I cry and both Stan and I jump in our own skin when we hear the slam of my tall bedroom door being slammed open by none other than my little brother. "Go away! Go away! Go away!" I scream as I clench my fists together even tighter, hard enough to draw blood across the untouched skin. I don't miss the crushed and hurt facial expression the vision holds as I demand him to leave, it almost looks like he might start crying just like I'm ever so close to as hot tears fog my vision. 

"Leave me alone!!" The hallucination obeys sadly as he stares into me one last time before turning his head downwards to the floor and fading away. And now for some reason, it's like there was a sudden change of heart for me because now I miss the presence of my lost best friend, even if it was all in my head. I don't know what I want anymore, and I don't know if I ever will. I can't stop the violent sobs that wrack through my body anymore as I finally just decide to cave in and let them loose. Ike's quick footsteps against the floor of my bedroom echo throughout the room as he hurries over to comfort me as it seems like this whole process has become a nightly routine. I wake up from something, screaming and crying, and either he or Mom has to rush in before I do something that I'll regret later. "Stan! W-Wait..." 

"Kyle!" He calls my name and hauls himself onto my bed. He's quick to notice the way I'm violently clenching my fists together as he reaches for my hands with my own. His big brown eyes widen in horror when he notices that warm blood is seeping from the soft flesh of my palms as my nails managed to cut through the numb skin on accident while I was breaking down. "Stop it! You're hurting yourself!" He yells at me but I don't listen as I continue to mutter nothings calling out to the vision under my hushed breath. He pries my hands apart so my fingernails are no longer digging into my palms before he wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me into a comforting hug. I don't return the gesture however as I only lift my arm upwards and point at the now empty space in front of my plush bed that's right next to the glass window. 

"H-He was there! Right there! Stan! St-Stan was there t-talking to me, Ike!" Ike sighs to himself sadly and shakes his head against my neck. 

"No one's there." He assures me sadly. 

"Y-You have to believe me! He was here, I-I just told him to leave and-and-" Ike grips onto me even tighter as he tries his very best to calm me down in any way he can. 

"You were just having another bad dream, Kyle. No one was in your room." My chest heaves and I slowly bring myself to hug him back. But someone was in my room, Stan was. 

"Go back to sleep, I'll stay with you. But please just get some rest." He pushes me down back against the mattress and pulls the covers back over my still body as I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes still wide as ever. He does the same next to me and breathes out as he nuzzles his face into the extra pillow I have. "Just close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. It was just a dream." 

I know why he would say it was just a dream. It has been just dreaming for the past month now, but that, that, was not a dream. I felt real, and I know that whatever warped version of Stan that was felt real too. I'm sorry Ike, you shouldn't be having to deal with me like this. You shouldn't have to see your big brother this weak and vulnerable, you're twelve and I'm eighteen. It's not fair to you, but just understand that this time it wasn't just a silly nightmare. It was so much more. 

I clench my hands and he kicks my side with his foot as he can sense that I'm still messing with them even when they are injured. "Stop playing with your hands. We'll bandage them up in the morning, so don't worry about it. But for now, for the love of god please just go back to sleep. Or else I'll kick you again." He threatens and I clench my jaw tensely before tightly nodding in agreement. 

"I'm sorry you have to see me like this." I apologize to him but he only carelessly shrugs. 

"I don't really care, just stop hurting yourself. I'm fine with calming you down, but I'm not fine with yanking your own hands away so you literally don't cause yourself to bleed. I hate to see you hurt, so just stop." He demands. 

"Okay, I'll try." I can sense the small smile that sneaks up to his lips. 

"Good, now shut up and sleep." He tells me one last time before shutting off completely and I know it's not worth talking to him anymore because he will probably just ignore me and focus on catching sleep for himself. 

Was Stan really here? Or am I just starting to go insane? I have no idea at this point and I'm not really okay with either one of those options. I could have sworn he was, unlike a dream with him in it, I could sense his presence the same way I did whenever I was around him when he was alive. I could just feel it. 

Maybe he'll come back...

That's the last thing that comes to my mind before I slowly manage to close my eyes and try and sleep off the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning my parents are cautious around me and I'm not really sure why until Ike confesses to me that they woke up to my screaming and crying before he did, he just so happened to be the one to rush into my room and comfort me. It's embarrassing that they had to hear me shouting at a vision of someone who isn't even alive anymore, especially when they thought that I was so close to getting better with my night terrors. Ike treats me normally although he is a little more soft and gentle with his words compared to how he usually acts due to the fact that he's been petrified of offending me recently which is new for him because he's my little brother who is usually ruthless with his insults. Mom and Dad on the other hand are walking on eggshells when they are in my presence because they are even more afraid of saying something to set me off. 

Mom has been extremely soft and sweet with me compared to before and for the first time in my life, she isn't on my ass as much. Dad just tends to avoid me whenever he can sense my mourning angst that tends to suck out all the positive energy in the room like I'm radiating fumes of negativity off of my body. I'm starting to get used to the whole way everyone acting like they are ice skating on dangerously thin ice whenever they are around me, but that doesn't necessarily mean I want to get used to these new behaviors. I want them to treat me just like they did before, as their son and older brother. Not this fragile porcelain doll that needs to be handled with the gentlest of hands. 

Mom wasn't very pleased with me when she discovered my bloodied hands with small cuts in the shapes of crescent moons pressed against the soft flesh of my palms from clenching my fists in anxiety so desperately only hours ago now. She's usually the one who has to take care of me after I injure myself just like any good mother but I know how much it pains her when I'm the one inflicting the injury on myself. I can just tell by the way her eyebrows arch and her eyes sadden while the corners of her lips turn down at the corners in dismay. I don't need to describe the facial expression of a disappointed and hurt mother for you to understand. Any child knows the look they give when you do such things that cause yourself pain. She held that crushing expression less than an hour ago while she wrapped medical tape over my bony hands, covering the fresh cuts that were caked in disinfectant cream. She gave me the same lecture as always that I've practically memorized at this point, she gives it to me after every anxiety attack. I just disassociate at this point and let the words fly over my head even if I shouldn't. I'm sorry, Mom.

It's the middle of the day when Mom decides to come into my room with my lunch and the phone in her hand upon my request of wanting to reach out to Ms. Johnson about what happened last night. I never thought that I would actually want to talk to my therapist in my own free-time when I could be doing better things, but honest to god I have to know what the hell happened in my room at four am of all times. Was it all just a bad dream? Was it real, was I actually seeing Stan? Or am I just slowly going insane? 

"Hello? Kyle, are you there?" My therapist calls out on the other side of the phone line and I swallow thickly before responding. 

"Hi, Ms. Johnson...I wanted to tell you about something that happened last night. My mom also thinks it's a good idea if I talk to you about it." Mom doesn't leave me alone like I was expecting, but instead, she stops abruptly and decides to lean her weight against the wooden doorframe of my bedroom as she watches me speak to my therapist closely. I think she also probably wants to know what Ms. Johnson has to say about the brutal scene that went down last night. I still won't tell her the whole story and neither will Ike so now is her chance to get as much detail as possible. I don't really blame her for wanting to know, if I were in her position I probably would as well. I mean think about it, would you just want to sit back and let your son drive himself crazy, or would you want to know what's wrong with him so you can help?

"Of course, it's good I don't have an appointment for another hour so I can talk with you. I'm free to talk for a while if you'd like." She offers because I know she wants me to finally open up somehow just like everyone else. I'm well aware of the fact that people around me think that because I'm finally the one reaching out to my therapist means that I might start communicating for the first time after Stan's suicide but that's not really my plan. I just want to know about this one thing so it won't ever happen again. I really want to stop waking up my entire family in the middle of the night as well so maybe if I ask someone they'll know what to do to stop me from doing this. 

"That won't be necessary, I just want to talk about a couple of things briefly." I can sense her tired sigh on the other end of the line. It was worth a shot, Ms. Johnson. 

"Okay then. What is it that you want to talk about?" She asks me and I glance over at my mother who is still leaning against the door frame. She nods her head encouragingly and I take that as a sign I should just start talking. 

"So, um last night...This is going to make it sound like I'm crazy." Maybe I am. "But I-I thought I saw Stan," I confess and there's a brief awkward silence that falls between us. 

"Like in a dream or in real life?" Ms. Johnson tries to ask. 

"I-I thought it was in real life, it just seemed so real. It felt like Stan too, I got the same energy from whoever I saw when he was still alive. He was just so close to me, but then my brother said that it was just a dream when he came into my room to comfort me. And now I j-just don't know what to think anymore." I explain and I bet that she's pulling out a notepad of some sort while she talks to me to jot all of this down somewhere so she can remember it and bring it back up at later sessions to torture me. 

"Okay, okay. Kyle, that is totally normal for the amount of grief and mourning you are going through right now after you lost someone so close to you."

"Really?" I ask, somewhat shocked as I furrow my eyebrows. Mom tilts her head to the side as she starts to tap her foot against the hard-wood floor. 

"Yes, really. A lot of people who lose someone as close to them as Stan was to you tend to see that person again in a dream-like state. It's normal for the most part, but you need to understand that when that happens it's all in your head." 

But what if it wasn't? What if he was really there trying to talk to me? Of course, I don't ask these questions out loud because if I were to do so, Ms. Johnsonwould just see me as more unstable than I'm already coming off. And to make matters worse, Mom is listening to our conversation still and she doesn't show plans of leaving me behind in the safe confines of my room. She would probably see me as even more unstable compared to my very own therapist given the fact that she was the one Ike told first about my 'nightmare' last night.

"Okay..."I cautiously respond. There are so many other things I want to ask her, so many other things I need to confirm to make sure I'm not batshit insane. But even with all of these planned questions and confirmations that pile up through my mind, for some reason, the small half-hearted response I gave her is the only thing that leaves my lightly chapped lips.

"I can't imagine what you're going through with losing someone so close to you, Kyle." She tells me, so much sweet-coated pity laced through her smooth voice it almost makes me sick. My stomach almost hurts and I clench my jaw tightly glancing upwards and making awkward eye-contact with my mom briefly. She cocks a brow in recognition as I'm probably making that same expression I've been painting onto my features a lot recently whenever someone says something along the same lines Ms. Johnson just uttered to me.

"But please just know that you'll get through this, you'll get through this as long as you are willing to. Just try and remember what we've been talking about recently during our sessions and turn to your healthy coping mechanisms. Do you have any other questions for me?"I do, I have so many I start to lose count as they literally spillover like a heavy bucket of water. But I just can't think of any ways to put them into words that anyone but myself could make out. And if I managed to make them sound clear and easy to understand once I pieced everything together, I'm sure I wouldn't receive the answer I want. I want someone to say to me that Stan is in a better place just like he wrote in his note. I want someone to tell me that he's freed now from the hell he was trapped in. And I want someone to reassure me that it wasn't my fault. That his death wasn't my fucking fault.

I want someone to tell me that I couldn't have done anything as I stood by and watched him fall deeper into this invisible pit of agony and depression. I want them to tell me that I couldn't control my own problems so I could fix them. I NEED someone to tell me that I did everything I could to save him. But they can't say that because I know more than anyone else that all of those things I just listed were under my own doing and if I never did them Stan might still be alive. I know more than anyone else that his suicide is my fault because I didn't save him, and that's the hardest part.

It's my fault that I don't have a best friend anymore.

I don't have someone I love. 

I clench my fist tightly completely forgetting about the fresh indents of crescent moons where my fingernails dug into the soft flesh of my palm last night. I flinch at the uncomfortable feeling of tenderness once I do so and Mom hurries over to my side at my sudden reaction. Goddammit.

The fact that I can't even gently jump in a small amount of pain anymore without someone running over to help me is so humiliating and excruciating. Her fingertips ghost over my protruding shoulder blades softly as she tilts her head to the side in concern. I can sense her reaching down slowly to touch my hand to make sure it's okay and I haven't reopened the brand new wounds underneath the uncomfortable medical tape and fuzzy gauze that's falling apart against my busy muscles. I gently bat her hand away so her motherly worrying doesn't distract me from answering the question that I have probably been putting off for much too long now as I continue to hesitate.

"No, I don't have any more questions." I quietly mumble under my shaky breath and I can sense Ms. Johnson's sigh at the other end of the phone line. At least she tried to pry more information from me. She'sprobably so disappointed to have me as a patient, it must be hard. I don't even do shit at her appointments, especially recently.

"Well, thank you for calling. And if you ever need to talk about anything else, you have my number." Mom gestures towards me that she wants to use the phone to continue the awkward and strained conversation with Ms. Johnson. I shrug towards her and start to pry it off of the side of my flushed face.

"Okay, thank you. Goodbye." Before she can say anything else about my anxiety, panic attacks, Stan, or god knows what else I quickly pass the phone to Mom who grips onto it almost instantly maybe a little too eager to hear more about my terrible mental health and strange behavior. I push my weight off of the wooden desk chair I sit slowly start to trace my steps towards the bedroom's doorframe so I can leave peacefully without any more dreaded questions. 

\-- 

Mom finished her conversation with Ms. Johnson about ten minutes ago now and I'm ashamed to say that I was a little bit nosey and decided to push the drum of my ear up against the wall so I could listen in on what they were discussing sneakily after I had escaped from the other droning voice on the phone line. She moved to a different room that wasn't my bedroom so I am now sitting still in my desk chair as my hands are folded across my lap. I didn't really get a good sense of what they were talking about given the fact that I could only hear Mom's voice answering questions and asking them herself every once in a while. And when I did make out the soft words of her voice through the thick drywall they were muffled and sounded like they were underwater somehow. So, I didn't really understand a lot of what they were talking about however, I was able to retrieve the overall idea. 

And as you could probably guess by now, the conversation was about me. 

They discussed how I'm not absorbing any of the things that Ms. Johnson is trying to teach me in therapy. And how I'm handling Stan's passing so poorly to the point that it's starting to take a pull on the way I see the world outside of the safe confines of my house. And of course, Mom broke the news to my tired therapist on the other line that I was supposed to go to college this coming year. Now that I've graduated and I'm starting to move forward with my life, I'm legally an adult now as I turned eighteen recently. I could sense the disappointment that was laced in the tone of her hushed voice as she explained that I managed to graduate from high school with straight A's and a few different scholarships. And I almost drowned in the same disappointment when also said that I was going to be going to a very special and advanced college to succeed and make my family proud but I couldn't manage to go because I was so crushed by Stan passing away. And as you could probably tell, I still am. 

That was when I had to pull myself away from eavesdropping any more, the pity in my mother's voice was just too intense and heart-wrenching I couldn't handle anymore of it even if I tried to. And now even though she hung up with Ms. Johnson around ten minutes ago now, she's still in the same room, dead silent. I swallow thickly because it's like she's just disappeared into thin air or left the room completely but I know she's still in there. I can sense it. 

I can feel my shoulders tense on instinct when the sound of her soft muffled sobs of sadness travel to my ears. Fuck. If there's anything worse than your best friend crying, it's your mother crying. Especially when you're the reason. If she didn't hold so much pity for me because of my recent behavior and actions, and how I've just decided to put my whole life that was going somewhere on pause, she wouldn't be crying. It's my fault that she's hurting. Goddammit, why does everything always have to be my fault?

I purse my lips tightly and blink a few times, contemplating whether or not I should comfort her or leave her alone. I grit my teeth as the unanswered decision rolls around through my mind, however it leaves as soon as the quiet sobs on the other side of the wall abruptly come to a stop and I hear Mom stand up from where she was sitting. It takes me a little while to realize that she's walking over to my room to tell me something now so I quickly scurry in my seat to make it look like I was doing something that wasn't eavesdropping in on her conversation and listening to her cry. I reach for a random book that sits on the flat surface of my desk and I desperately open it before flipping to some random ass page to make it look like I was reading. It's stupid really when you think about it, especially when you take in the fact that I've already read this book before and she knows that. The only reason it's on my desk is so I can eventually put it away somewhere. 

Mom pushes the tall wooden door open as she stands in the silhouette of the doorframe. She clears her throat softly to grab my attention even though it's already all on her. I tilt my head upwards and look up at her with wide green eyes, she wipes underneath her own with the soft pads of her fingers gently so it doesn't look like she's been crying. I know she doesn't want me to worry. I know this because I don't want her to worry either. 

"I'm going to run a few errands, Bubbeh. I don't want to leave you here, but I know you won't want to come with me. So please just text or call me if you need anything." She tells me and I hastily nod my head. 

"Your father and brother are also off somewhere so you have the house to yourself if you have any attacks or-" I cut her off so she won't stress over my well-being too much. 

"Mom, that won't happen. There's nothing for me to panic about so you don't have to worry, okay?" She hesitates and pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and I can see her shoulders sink. 

"Okay..." She finally answers and I utter the tiniest smile that's really just a curl of the lips. "I love you, Kyle." 

"Love you too." I respond, she smiles softly to herself before turning away and heading towards the stairs to leave the house to myself. 

\--

I sigh and set down this book that I have been reading for the past thirty minutes since I've had the entire house to myself. I've honestly forgotten what being home alone feels like given the fact that every single member of my family has been practically monitoring me these past few months because they are worried I might do something that I 'would regret later'. Or at least that's what everyone has been telling me, I'm not even really sure what it means at this point as it could have multiple meanings without anyone really knowing. It feels weird, I used to have so many things I enjoyed doing when I was by myself. I would cook, clean, write, just do anything that seemed remotely interesting in my head at the time. But now that it's finally only me again, nothing seems interesting to me, not even going down into the kitchen and cooking my family some of their favorite dishes. It's already almost dark as the sun sets slowly behind the peaks of the mountains. It's weird to think that this whole day is already almost over as it's becoming nighttime before I know it. 

I used to bake and cook food for Kenny and his little sister a lot ever since their brother moved out to support the two, knowing that they don't have a ton of money for good food. It used to be a common occurrence when Kenny would drop by with Karen and we would have our own little movie night while I made them some good-quality dinner. Stan would tag along too sometimes because he always knew about the best movies and TV shows all of us could watch together even though he sucked ass at cooking. Sometimes Cartman would even join us when he felt like it. But that hasn't happened for a while now, even though I miss it more than anything. 

I'm snapped out of the memories that plague my mind and dim all of my other senses when the digital clock on my wooden nightstand suddenly falls to the ground with a random crash. My shoulder jump slightly and my slender arms twitch on instinct. "Shit..." I curse as I walk over to it slowly, visibly upset that I have to get up from my comfortable spot by the glass window with a drawn-on frown present on my lips. I'm going to be pissed if the stupid thing is broken, although I don't even really know why I still have it. It's a cheap hunk of junk my dad got for me last minute in middle school at some dumb garage sale, knowing I needed an alarm clock at the time for school. I had and still do sometimes have this bad habit of sleeping in during the wintertime because it's just so damn cold and I don't want to leave the warm and comforting confines of my room. And this annoys the shit out of my father so it was really just a last-minute attempt to end the poor habit. 

Luckily, the plastic clock is not broken as it has no scratches or cracks when I pick it up. I examine it to make sure there aren't any other problems over the surface I'm just not noticing yet, but it looks just fine for now. It probably wouldn't be a big deal if there were, but I just want to make sure and it would really suck to upset my dad by breaking something he gave me. Even if it wasn't necessarily for the right reasons. I hum to myself when a random gust of wind racks through the structure of my house, that's weird it wasn't that windy when I went outside this morning for some fresh air. Although, Colorado weather is strange and can change at any moment. I have become very aware of this from living here my entire eighteen years of being alive. 

I click the small button on the left-hand side of my shitty alarm clock with the tip of my bony finger to adjust the timing of the long day that drags on so it's correct and I won't accidentally sleep in thinking it's one time when it's actually another. That has happened before and it was not fun. My eyebrows furrow together when the device I hold tightly in my hands randomly beeps at me. Fucking thing. 

I completely ignore the weird feeling that grows in the pit of my stomach that I'm being closely watched. It's probably just my anxiety brain yapping on a loop like a broken record. Ms. Johnson told me that when I recognize that side of my mind I should just try my best to ignore it and as I've not been taking anything she tells me seriously, I think it's fair that this one time I should just finally listen to her advice. She is a certified therapist after all. 

There is a knocking sound right behind me like someone is drumming their knuckles against the drywall of my painted bedroom wall. I blink my green eyes a few times. Okay, that's weird. I slowly crane my neck so I can turn my head around and once the dark pupils of my eyes are locked on what is standing in front of me, I feel my knees go weak in fear. Stan. 

A short and sudden scream of fear rips its way through my trembling lips and I chuck the digital clock that I clutched between my pale hands as far away from me as I possibly can as I flinch harshly. It flies across the length of my bedroom and smashes against the wall that seems like a mile away from me, or I should say me and the same vision of Stan that visited last night. The night that feels like years ago already as the whole scene. was so blurry and fuzzy in my head. It slams against the painted surface with a loud smack of plastic being blown apart much like a small gunshot. Well, now it's definitely broken. 

Now that my hands aren't preoccupied withholding something, I use one of them to cup it over my mouth to muffle another light sob. The same vision of Stan from last night is back in front of me, staring into my eyes in so many silents pleads it splits my heart in two. His eyebrows are arched and his mouth is drawn into a thin line as he reaches his hand out to me. I back away in fear like an abused animal and it's clear that this only hurts him. 

"Kyle..." That voice calls out to me, the same one that I grew to love hearing. The same one that I thought I would never get to hear again. So why is it that now, when it finally reaches the drums of my ears all I want to do is cry for help?

"N-No..." I call out to nothing in particular. "Wh-What are you doing here?! You're supposed to be dead!" I stutter and he opens his mouth to speak. It's so strange and haunting to see all of the colors from my best friend drained and taken away as he's practically see-through now. If this is even my best friend, maybe I'm hallucinating or something. I now can confirm that this isn't a nightmare due to the fact that I never fell asleep today to take a quick nap. 

"I know...I think I am it's just...I'm still on Earth." The vision distantly explains to me and it's clear that he's just as confused and flustered as I am right now. 

"Y-You aren't real!" I shake my head furiously and it's like I'm trying to assure myself this more than whatever is in front of me posing as the deceased Stan Marsh. "You're in m-my head! You can't h-hurt me!" 

His blue eyes widen at this and it hits me only now that his irises are practically glowing like the night sky at midnight. "I d-don't want to hurt you! I'm here because you are the only person who has been able to see me and talk to me, I've tried reaching out to so many other people, but none of them notice that I'm there. I'd never hurt you, Kyle, come on you know this." He sounds almost offended and hurt at how I think he would do such a thing. If he really doesn't want to, then is he actually Stan and I'm just being dramatic. 

"You. Are. Just. In. My. Head." I speak out sternly as I feel myself clenching my fingers together to form a tight fist, ignoring the pain it brings to my wounded flesh. Stan'ss expression changes from surprise and defense to sadness and hurt. It looks like he might cry as he purses his pale lips together that once held so much more color. 

"I wish I was...I wish I was gone too. This-This wasn't supposed to happen, I was supposed to die, not stay here in another form." He explains at this tears a cry out of my throat at the harsh reality he wishes he was gone. "I don't know what's going on, I have a little bit of an idea but that's it. All I know is that you're the only person that I'm able to talk to, no one else." 

"Just stop, I know you aren't real. So stop trying to convince me you are!" I plead desperately and I can feel my body start to break down. 

"Kyle, please just listen to me-" He begs me like nothing else in the cruel world matters. 

"NO!!" I shout shrilly and my legs move forward before I can stop myself. It's like all of my emotions invade my controls and senses as I plunge forward into him as his eyes widen in fear. 

"Wait, don't--" He starts to warn me but he's not able to finish as my body runs straight into him. However, instead of slamming into what I think would be his familiar body-heat, I crash to the carpeted floor instead and experience the strangest out-of-this-world feeling ever as I just went through him entirely. I feel like vomiting onto the ground as my stomach churns and thousands of painful tingles erupt across my pale skin at the sensation of just walking and falling through a fucking ghost. I groan in pain and discomfort and I can feel him staring down at my hunched form in pity. 

"What the fuck was that?" I ask him, disgust laced in my tone as I just continue to stare with hazy eyes down at the carpet right underneath my face. My vision is slightly blurry for some reason after just slamming into his see-through frame. "What the hell, Stan!!" 

He flinches at my angry tone lightly and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel bad given the fact that he's always been sensitive to that sort of thing. 

"I-I'm sorry, dude. But you-you can't touch me, and I can't touch you. Even if we both want to..." For some reason this cracks something inside of me as I pound my clenched fist against the floor, causing a few things in my room to make noise in a reaction. I do it again. Again. And again. 

"It's not fair, it's not fair, IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR!!" I shout and his figure squats down onto his knees so the two of us are someone eye-level. 

"Kyle..." He tries to reach out to me in an attempt to rest the palm of his once-comforting hand onto my sharp shoulder blade but it just seeps straight through my flesh and curved spine. 

"NO!" I point an accusing index finger towards him. "You died! You fucking killed yourself and I found you! I was the one to find you overdosed, foaming at the mouth with your eyes rolled back to your skull as I had to watch you being dragged off into the back of some goddamn ambulance! And now you are here, in front of me like some fucking ghost telling me I'm the only one who can see you!" I look up at him with teary eyes and flushed cheeks and the expression he has on his face shatters me. 

"I know...I know I died. A-And I never wanted you to be the one to f-find me. I didn't want anyone to find me really, but I definitely didn't want it to be you." He tells me but I only shake my head.

"So why did you do it? Why did you end your life, hurting so many people around you?" He sighs heavily and doesn't answer my question. Instead, he says something I would never expect. 

"I so badly want to hug you right now." His voice cracks and he attempts to touch me again, only for it to fail as his hand goes straight through my bones for a second time. "I want to hold you and tell you everything will be okay...that things will get better." 

"Don't. Don't say that, if you do I will only want it to happen more." He swallows and breathes out shakily. 

"I want it to happen to, more than anything, Ky." I gather enough energy to bring myself up to a sitting position and now I am able to look him straight in the eyes. The blue of his irises is the only colored part of his body and they are as vibrant as ever against the faded white expanse of the rest of his features. Not even the subtle tones of his soft blush are left behind, the only color left on his body being the soft sea-blue around his pitch-black pupils. He wears the same outfit he wore when I found him that dreadful day. An old hooded-flannel that used to be red and black, a soft black t-shirt, and a pair of blue-jeans. 

"Why are you here? And why is it only me who can see you?" I ask him pleadingly because the question has been haunting me ever since I first saw him again. It has been plaguing my mind like a trap and I want to be set freed. He swallows thickly and it takes him a little while to say something, showing me that there is more than just one answer. My deceased best friend is literally talking to me as a ghost, it doesn't get more complicated than that so it would be surprising if he answered my question in just one simple response. 

"I don't know exactly why I'm still here, but I kind of have an idea as to how I can leave." He tells me. "I wish I knew why you are the only person who can still see me, but I don't. I guess because we were so close when I was alive, maybe?" 

"We were best friends, and you were one of the only people I could trust. I think that definitely has something to do with it." I admit it because it's true. He wasn't just one of the only people I could trust, he was the only person I could trust. I think both of us know however that the reason why I'm the only person who is able to see him is much more complicated both of us just don't want to admit it. I might be the only one to talk to him because I had feelings for him in....nevermind. That can't be it. 

He scratches the back of his head with his fingernails sheepishly and somehow his whole hand doesn't sink through his body as my own did only minutes ago now. Maybe he's able to touch himself but no one else is? All of this is so unfamiliar and strange, I know I'm not asleep but all of this just seems like some weird fever dream I can't escape. Like I'm drowning in it and I can't reach the air that seems so close yet so far away above me. 

"You can touch yourself...why is that?" I ask him with a tone of almost jealously in my voice given the fact that I can't do what I want to after finally being able to see him. I told myself that if I were to ever see Stan again in another life or in some relieving dream the first thing I would do is hug him. And now in some crazy scenario that seems unreal plays out in front of me and I'm reunited with him, I can't do that. 

"Well, I found out that I can touch and pick up intimate objects without them going through me. Like books and pens, I can even write something on a piece of paper if I want to. I'm able to walk through walls on command but I don't really like to because it freaks me out. It's the Same thing with going through other people, it's that same out of body experience you just went through when you tried to grab me." He explains and brings his hands in front of his face so they are right between the two of us. The glow that radiates off of his frame illuminates my sharp facial features in the dark lighting of my bedroom. "I can touch myself because all of my body is in this new form, and I'm able to touch things that are this weird ghost flesh, I guess. It's confusing and I'm not really sure that I'm correct, but that's just what I'm going with right now." 

I also try to reach my hands out so they are parallel with his own ghost ones. I place my palms flat against my own or at least try to but my skin only seeps into his like a magnet. Both of us stare at the image of our palms trying and failing to be pushed together as an attempt to finally touch each other for months on end. 

"I want to touch you, Stan," I tell him.

"I know, I'm sorry." My lips twitch with dismay. That's not what I want him to say right now. I don't want him to apologize for this, I just want him to tell me that there is a way I would be able to touch him. I want to for both of us because I can tell he wants it just as bad. 

"I need to tell you something...." He trails off and by the sound of his voice, it sounds serious. I tilt my head to the side in curiosity and I furrow my eyebrows. 

"What is it?" I quietly ask him, not too loud. It's ironic because it doesn't even matter how loud my voice is right now, I'm all alone in the house. But for some reason I keep my tone hushed just for Stan like if I raise my voice any more he will scurry away from me. 

"I-I can't stay in this ghost form on Earth, I have to get to the afterlife. I just have this intense feeling in my heart that I have to be there, I mean people aren't supposed to become ghosts when they die, right? If they were I don't think I would be so alone right now." I don't want to tell him that he's alone, I want to tell him that I'm here. But I can't tell him that and that crushes me and rips me apart from the inside out. I haven't been there for him even when he was alive, if I were he would be in human form talking to me right now. Not ghost form. And he would be able to actually hold my hands gently while caressing the pad of his course thumb against my skin in a comforting way because he knows how that causes butterflies to erupt in the pit of my stomach. He would be able to wrap his arms around me and tug me in close while placing his curled lips at the top of my head as I would burry my face into his familiar body heat that is completely washed away now. 

"I can keep you company, you can be my secret imaginary friend. You can be with me and stand by as I go to college and move out of this shitty town. You can be there when I get my first job and-" I envision but he interrupts me before I can get too carried away and stuck in my own fantasies that I know can't happen. 

"Ky...you know we can't." He purses his thin colorless lips and shakes his head depressingly. "What would people do if you ever told anyone, they'd think you were going crazy. You would be put back into a mental hospital just like that time in middle school. I know what that did to you, it wouldn't be fair if I let that happen to you again. What would we both do as you got older and older and I just stayed the same in this weird teenage boy form? You'd never be able to let go of me and I-" 

"Don't you get it?!" I suddenly cut him off and yank my hands away from him. "I don't want to let go of you!" 

"I don't want to let go of you either, dude. You are the one thing I didn't want to leave." He pulls his chapped bottom lip between his teeth in nervousness. "But I have to, you have to. I-I need your help with doing so though, and I think you might need mine. Maybe if the two of us can get me to the afterlife together, we'll be able to let go..." 

I don't say anything, I know he's right but I just don't want to admit it right now. However, I know that the best thing to do is to oblige and help him even if it means I have to move on when I'm not ready yet. I want to express my hidden feelings for him that have been put away for far too long now, I want to tell him the things I never got to. I want to tell him that I love him more than a friend even if he doesn't feel the same. I never got to before and if he has to leave me again for real this time, I still want to at some point. 

"Okay," I hesitantly responded. "What can I do to help the two of us?" 

"I need to reach the afterlife, I'm stuck here somehow. I'm not sure why, but I never really got the chance to say goodbye to all the people I loved. All the people who were there for me, I never got to make amends. And maybe now if I can, I'd be able to move on." He explains and I nod understandingly. That all would make sense, I don't know a lot about ghosts just because I was never really into them as other people would be at my age. But I do know that sometimes ghosts are trapped on the surface of the earth because they left too unexpectedly or they didn't close ties with those who were most important in life. I know the whole concept is pretty damn complicated, maybe there is someone they never defeated or someone they were in love with they never confessed to. But I think the fact that ghosts are stuck because they need to make amends makes the most sense. 

"How would we do that?" I ask as my lips twitch to the side as I give him an expression that doesn't have any specific emotion laced behind it. 

"Well, that's why I wanted to talk to you. If I'm being honest, I don't really know for sure quite yet." He scratches the back of his head with his translucent hand as he furrows his eyebrows in question. 

"If you don't know, why would I? I think you know more about this ghost stuff than I do given the fact that you actually are one." I retort, he can't just think I know everything about this sort of thing automatically.

"Because you're really smart, dude." He lowers his transparent fingertips to the nape of his neck as he keeps it there with a sheepish expression painted onto his pale features. There is a small pigment of gray color that dashes across the bridge of his sloped nose and the surface of his fair cheeks. Wait, is he blushing? Is that why there is a sudden rush of shading that rises to his face?

"That's not true, I may act smart but that doesn't mean I automatically am." I used to feel smart. I used to see myself as one of the smarter kids in my grade, but as I grew older I realized I was more average than anything else. I may have gotten into some fancy school out of state but at what cost? Starving myself of sleep and sanity just to study more than anyone else like I was some idiot who had no idea how to ace a stressful test to get into college. I don't think I'd have to go to those extreme measures if I were smart. 

"What are you talking about? You're one of the smartest people I know." He tries to reach out like he forgot about his current form but then he's quick to retreat and correct his words at the harsh realization he's just some lost spirit trying to find his way back home. "Or knew." 

"Thanks, I guess." Why does it have to be so awkward between us? There should be so much we need to catch up on, but there just isn't. What would we catch up on? Him trying to get people to see him and struggling to walk through walls and me moping around my house not really doing anything all day. That doesn't really sound that exciting on either end of the conversation. I look downwards at my lap and a stray curl of hair falls into my eyes. "If you can still pick up intimate objects like books, then you can definitely pick up paper and pens. I don't know...maybe if you could write to all of the people who were there for you in a kind closing letter I could be the one to do the talking. We can give them gifts along on the way." 

I peer back up through my bangs to see Stan fondly staring at me with the tiniest smile drawn onto his thin ghostly lips. I swallow thickly at the expression and I can't help the warm feeling of affection starting to gather in my heart. "What?" I ask him somewhat suspiciously. 

"It's just that, I had the same idea." He laughs breathlessly and I can't help to let myself grin for the first time in what feels like endless years. 

"Great minds think alike, I suppose." I joke around and he just shakes his head sheepishly. 

"I don't know if it will work, but I think it's more likely to with you by my side." He confesses. The soft smile remains on my face as I can still notice the tiny gray blush that shades his cheeks. 

"Stan, why can't you just stay?" I know we've been over why, but maybe there are other reasons? He sighs deeply at this and fidgets, I already know from his behavior that the question has changed his demeanor from loving to anxious. I know these things about Stanley Marsh, I've come to be able to read him like an awaiting book. 

"I-If we don't ever get me to the afterlife I'll just disappear from existence completely, and the people who were in my past life will just forget about me like I was never born. Like I never existed." He explains and I can't help but blink in shock. 

"Even I would forget about you? But, you know I could never do that, right? How do you know this all anyway?" 

"Yeah, Ky. As much as I hate to say it even you would. It happens to all ghosts if they aren't lucky enough. And the only reason I know all of this is because of the dream you have before you become a ghost, it's just a dream that occurs before you rise again out of your body. It explains why you didn't make it to the afterlife and what not and what happens if you don't make it there in time. However, it doesn't explain how you can get there because it can be different for everyone. I don't know the whole thing was kind of weird." 

"I don't want to ever forget you, dude. That would be my worst nightmare, it's already bad enough with you gone. If you're ever completely erased from my memory I don't know what I'd do." 

"Then, do you want to work together? I-I don't think it would hurt as bad if I get there with your help." 

"Yeah...Yeah. Of course, we can work together." I mutter under my breath softly. I tug on my knees gently so I can tuck my knees underneath my chin so my posture is now formed into a tight protecting ball. Stan awkwardly clears his throat and I blink a few times, advertising my attention towards him because coughing suddenly was always something he did whenever he had something to say.

"What is it?" I ask, clearing the air and breaking the silence that was beginning to linger between us. He doesn't seem surprised that I knew he wanted to ask something as he tilts his head back as the two of us keep eye-contact. I'm honestly very relieved that the irises of his eyes are the only thing apart of his body now that isn't washed away with color. That means a lot given the fact that his eyes were one of the first things I fell for, the other first thing is his personality. 

"I was just wondering how you've been, I mean I never thought we'd get to talk again but now we do. So we might as well try and catch up to-" I cut him off as a random surge of anger rushes from the base of my spine to the tips of my fingers. 

"Are you serious?" I sound almost offended and he swallows at the familiar tone of my voice when I tend to get heated about a certain subject matter. "You want to know how I've been?" 

"I mean, yeah. I do because I care about you and I-" I interrupt him once again. 

"You fucking died, Stan. My best friend overdosed on pills and I was the one who fucking found him, how do you think I've been?" I seethe and his eyes widen in shock at my sudden outburst. I can't help it, I have these random bursts of anger when I'm triggered or annoyed by something. It's been like this ever since I was a child and I know it's annoying, but I can't seem to really control them as much as I would like. I stand up abruptly and he's quick to do the same thing so we're both nearly eye-level, I'm still somewhat shorter than him standing but I'm not craning my neck to stare at him if he were still sitting. 

"I-I don't know. I want you to be doing well, but I know that that's impossible after everything that happened. It's fine if you aren't great, I-I just wanted to check in because I...y'know, I really care about you." He fidgets with his translucent fingers and I wonder if the tips of his fingers still feel course from years and years of drawing with charcoal and graphite across smooth sketching paper. "I still care about you."

"Then why did you do it?" He furrows his eyebrows in confusion at this and I shrug at him, he doesn't need to be confused he knows exactly what I mean by this. 

"Kyle, I-" 

"If you really cared about me so much and if you still do, then why did you have to leave? Don't you realize how many people it hurt? Why did you have to take your own life?"

"I wrote down why in the note,"

"That was hardly any explanation at all, Stan! I want to know why you actually did it, I need to know why!" I defend because even if the note did go into a little bit of detail it was nothing that could answer my defeating questions that have been plaguing my mind. What he wrote in that crumpled not will never be able to take the blame off of me for letting him go so easily. 

"I can't just tell you like it's nothing!" He raises his voice in defense and this only roots me on even more. 

"Why not!?"

"B-Because it would only hurt you!"

"Oh, believe me, nothing could hurt me any more right now. You might as well tell me now when I'm completely numb because of everything." He stops at this briefly and sucks in a deep breath. For a split second, I'm actually worried he might turn around and go through my window without saying anything else, leaving me behind in my own wallowing hurt. He doesn't however which is such a relief it feels like I might pass out. 

"If you really want to know, there were multiple reasons and I was just starting to lose count. Everything was falling in on itself, it felt like things were going that way for a very long time. And all I could do was watch." He explains and raises his splayed out fingers to his vision as he stares down at the different separated digits. "If felt like I was doing everything wrong, even if I put all my effort into it. Even things that I actually liked doing from before like drawing and hanging out with friends started to weigh down on me. I just couldn't feel anything anymore other than sadness with the world and anger with myself." He lowers his digits and looked me dead in the eye. "And I fucked every single last thing up, Kyle. I fucked things up with my family, my friends, and you. You know I did but you just haven't said anything because you don't want to revisit it. I can tell with the way you look at me." 

"That's a conversation for another time," I tell him and he only purses his lips, clearly disagreeing but not wanting to pry any further. 

"There was so much, and I can't just tell you all of it right now because then we would be here for hours on end. But what finally drove me to the edge was the fact that I already felt mentally dead on earth, so what was the difference between physically being dead? I now understand that difference, but it's clearly too late now." There's so much I didn't know, don't know. And that manages to split me in half from the inside out. It doesn't help that I suck at comforting people. I can't comfort myself so why would I be able to do the same with anyone else?

"I'm sorry." Is all I say and he shrugs like it means nothing when it's clear that it actually secretly means everything. 

"It's not your fault." I'm so fucking sick of hearing that. I want to scream and shout at him that it is my fault because I was the one who let him slip through my fingers ever so easily. 

"Please just answer this question," "What was it like to die? Did it hurt? Did you remember it? Was it over fast?" 

"Why do you want me to answer that so badly?" His voice cracks and I grit my teeth together tightly. I don't even know how to answer that and even when I open my mouth to try to nothing falls from my trembling lips. He only sighs and clenches and unclenches his balled fists a couple of times in anxiety. "If you really want to know, it was fucking terrible." He mumbles just above a hushed whisper. "I mean, I knew it would hurt. It's dying, of course, it will. But fuck I didn't know it would feel like that." 

"Did you want me to be the one to find you?" I ask because I need to know. He knew I was coming over later in the day when he overdosed, so was it intended that I would be the one to discover his body. 

"No. I didn't want anyone to find me, but I knew that someone would come across me at some point. I just hate myself for the fact that it was you of all people." He answers sadly.

"I can't unsee it. It's always playing in my mind now." I confess to him distantly because it's true. It's just like a broken record player that won't stop malfunctioning. I cant manage to get the image of his lifeless and vacant eyes out of my mind no matter how much I want to. 

"I'm so sorry...I wish I could make it better." He whispers but I only respond with another question.

"Do you wish you were alive, Stan?" 

He doesn't say anything and I honestly think that his silence is worse than any response I was expecting. 

The blank quietness lingers for a little while until he nods his head over to my plush bed. "Are you tired? I'll stay with you until you fall asleep." 

"You don't have to do that," I tell him and he softly smiles. 

"What if I want to?" I roll my green eyes but I feel the corners of my lips twitch. I turn on the ball of my heel and he follows me over to the familiar warmth of my mattress. I gently drop my bodyweight down onto it and there's a small plop emitting from the sheets from the sudden cascading of my body on the fabric surface. He does the same without falling through somehow as I turn around on my side to get comfortable, reaching for one of the spare pillows on my bedspread to hug. 

"You're not phasing through the mattress," I note and he laughs that breathless laugh of his that I have been starving for. 

"I'm trying not to." He tells me before tucking together his sandwiched hands underneath his cheek that rests upon the fluffy pillow next to my own. When he was still alive and the two of us were younger, we would always have sleepovers together and this was apart of our routine. Both of us even have the same sleeping positions as we did back then which is pretty funny when you really think about it. 

"Do ghosts sleep?" I ask him because his eyes are wide open and it's clear he doesn't have any plans of closing them soon as I do. 

"Sometimes. Not like humans, but we get tired too." I nod at this but another question scratches the back of my mind. 

"Do ghosts dream?" He only smiles tiredly at this. 

"Answering all of your questions is honestly tiring, Ky." He teases fondly. I can't' help but click my tongue at this. 

"Whatever, can you really blame me? All of this is fucking weird, dude." He chuckles into the pillow underneath him.

"There's no arguing against you there." I'm just glad he isn't offended. Although to be fair, he seems to be just as confused about this whole thing as I am. 

"I haven't been sleeping well," I admit. It's embarrassing to me for some reason I can't quite grasp onto but he seems to openly understand as he nods his head knowingly. 

"I know, Ky." He mutters softly, almost comfortingly. 

"How do you know?" A small amount of confusion is laced through my voice that is growing quieter and quieter as each minute passes before fatigue swallows me whole. 

"I'm your best friend and I've known you almost as long as your own parents. I can tell when you're sleep-deprived." He jokes around and fatigue is also hidden behind the curtains of his voice. I know when he's tired just like he knows when I am, and he's worse at covering it up. 

"You're tired too, Stan. I can tell" 

"That's okay, you need more sleep than I do." His sleepy grin falters suddenly and his eyebrows knit together. "I wanted to tell you that the other night, I-I didn't mean to scare you. I really didn't." 

"I know you didn't. " I reassure him. I know that this sort of thing sticks with him even if we both don't want it to. He never means to harm anyone on purpose and that's always been clear through his actions, just like right now for example. 

"Alright," He says, not really sounding fully convinced. 

"Goodnight," I mutter quietly to him naturally from habit. 

"Goodnight Ky..." Is the last thing I hear before falling into a deep sleep. And for the first time in months, I didn't wake up from something once.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally being reunited, Stan and Kyle visit the first person on their list to make amends with.

The next morning when I finally awake, Stan is no longer by my side. I can't really assume where he went given the fact he's a ghost and he has the ability to go anywhere he wants if he's determined enough, all I really know is that he's no longer in my room or my house as the sun's bright shining rays seep through my glass window. I sigh and stare down at the empty space on the mattress next to me surrounded by wrinkled sheets and discarded pillows. Of course, he left before I awoke, why would he stay?

It feels weird to wake up again after getting enough sleep for the first time in months, almost like I'm just stuck to the ceiling watching over my body that is glued to the surface of the mattress. I can't really tell if I feel good or not, more or so just confused as to why I finally got a good night of sleep with no night terrors. It would make more sense if this were a gradual thing that got better over time with my mourning, but it wasn't. I just randomly had no nightmares at all last night, it's almost like my brain just decided to switch all of them off like a power button once Stan was finally in my presence. That makes no sense to me at all, you wouldn't think that him being in the room with me while I sleep would be a deal-breaker. Unless my feelings for him somehow-

There's a sudden knock at the door that causes me to basically jump out of my own skin as the sound of someone's fist banging against the wood of my bedroom door echoes through my eardrums like a bass drum. I suck in a harsh breath and furrow my eyebrows, so much for a peaceful morning to myself. My thoughts were basically just cut through like a knife through butter. 

"What?!" I shout, clear agitation laced through my voice. Goodmorning would be nice however the nice greeting didn't really come across my mind when I opened my mouth to speak. 

"Mom wants you to come downstairs for breakfast," Ike calls out to me, unbothered by my sudden outburst. "Get your ass up or she'll come up here herself." And with that his small footsteps pitter-patter back down the hallway away from my bedroom door. 

Ugh, that's right breakfast. I really don't have an appetite right now then again I suppose that's not really new for me to not be hungry. I plop down back onto the soft plush mattress of my large bed and allow myself to close my eyes again, I'll be down in a few minutes. I think they won't mind if I stay here for five more minutes to try and gather all of my scattering thoughts together to put them into one place. There are more important things to think about instead of what I'm going to have for breakfast. Like how I'm going to help my 'dead' best friend make amends with the people closest to him. 

Who does he even want to make those amends to? And what does 'making amends' even really mean? It could be code for anything honestly, saying goodbye, confessing things, giving gifts. I guess it doesn't matter how it's performed as long as he does it at some point. I'm guessing he's going to want to properly say goodbye to his mother of course because they were always close. He would want to close things up with Kenny obviously and probably also Butters, maybe even Cartman. It gets a little more complicated with the three other people who are in the back of my mind at the moment. 

There's his sister, and even though they got along better compared to before when she went off to college, it's no secret that their relationship was kind of patchy growing up. But they are siblings and it would honestly be kind of shallow if he didn't say goodbye to her. Shelly has a good heart and she did care for her brother in some sort of way even if she didn't show it that well. Then there is his dad of course, and unlike his relationship with Shelly, it only got worse instead of better. Especially after Stan's parents finalized their divorce earlier in our freshman year of high school. 

He and Randy were just distant from each other after the whole thing at first, it wasn't until his dad actually wanted to start seeing him when things got rough. Stan would always tell me that his dad just seemed like a completely different person after the divorce, someone he couldn't recognize even if he tried. And he started to project all of his problems and shitty thoughts onto Stan which of course isn't healthy for any sort of relationship. As they both got older, it got worse and worse, and Randy's alcoholism didn't improve either. And as his addictions got worse, his son's mental health plummeted. The worst part was the way he refused to recognize that Stan was struggling, he approached that whole issue with the mindset that it would just eventually go away if neither of them thought about it. Like you would expect, this hurt Stan more than anything else. Stan never went into too much detail about his relationship with his dad just because it's always been such a sensitive topic that only grew more problematic as time went by. However probably the most depressing thing he ever told me about the whole thing was that Randy was almost absent when he was sober like he wasn't even there and terrifying when he was drunk, a strong force that you should just stay away from if you can. 

That was something he told me that shattered me to pieces. I still remember the stoic expression that was drawn onto his face when he confessed this to me. I was absolute shit at comforting him and I still hate myself for not saying anything that would help in that situation. Sometimes I go over similar events that have happened like that before in my head and I just think of what I could have said or done to make things better. I always end up beating myself up for it as I know there are certain things that would have just fixed things but I was too cowardly at the moment to lean into them. I know that he was hiding things from me with his Dad, I don't know what but given his sudden behavior changes whenever Randy's name was brought up in conversation I can just assume it wasn't good. 

The final person who might be complicated to reach out to is Wendy, Stan's ex-girlfriend herself. The hardest part of confronting her is the fact that Stan won't be the one who's going to be tense to see her. I will. 

Sure, their love-life was kind of rough towards the end of their relationship but they figured most things out and moved past them. I was the one who was stuck on them, leaning into that overthinking habit of mine. Both of them did shitty things when they dated. Stan was shitty at communication and was never really interested in opening up about certain things even if she tried to get him to. Not to mention he really tried to steer her away from his friends sometimes which was questionable in her point of view. Wendy on the other hand was strong-willed and tended to be a little hot-headed when he did something she didn't really care for even if it was small. She was the one to break things off with him suddenly and it shattered him. They eventually figured things out, but I was still very over-protective of Stan's heart after she tore it from him and then stomped on it. I still am. So it's only natural for me to be a little cautious around her. 

But that's not the only reason reaching out to her is going to be so awkward for me. Wendy is perfect it seems like. She's incredibly smart, and even if I am too in my own way, she can easily separate her anxieties and toxic thoughts from her mind when she needs to focus. And that right there is something that I cannot do even if I tried. She's going to fucking Yale next semester, and it took her no effort to even get in she's that professional and clever. And she's one of the only people close to Stan who isn't letting his death put everything in her life on pause. She knows exactly when to focus on her emotions and then she knows when to focus on her grades and future. Not to mention, she's drop-dead gorgeous. I don't even really have any interest in girls and I can admit that with no hesitation. Even Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak the gayest kids in town would also probably admit that. 

She's doesn't seem perfect, she is perfect. She's never failed so she isn't afraid of failure. And I can't help but envy her to an unhealthy point for that reason. I roll my eyes at the reminder that has always seemed to bite me in the ass ever since the beginning of middle school. I toss the soft sheets of my bed off of my body and finally will myself to get out of the comfortable bed. I might as well start the day before it's my mother this time barging in to wake me up. Plus, I have a full day ahead of me of helping Stan out with contacting everyone he wants to read out to.

\--

After the breakfast I barely choked down, I went back up to my room and waited for Stan's figure to revisit me so we could start making a list of the people he wanted to say goodbye to. I shoved a spare blanket underneath my wooden door right between the small crack where the wood ends and the soft fuzz of the carpet begins. The only reason I did this is that I don't want my parents to think I'm some sort of crazy person as they would believe I'm just talking to myself. Although if they caught me, then I would have to explain who I'm talking to and it would be too much of a hassle to tell them I'm talking to my dead best friend. I really don't find that whole concept appealing and it would just save more time if they didn't hear me, to begin with. So I'm going with shoving an old blanket underneath the entrance of my bedroom. 

I grab a notepad from my desk drawer to jot down a few different names that would be good candidates for this mission Stan and I are going on together. I also let my arm extend for a pen that is set delicately on the surface of the piece of furniture in front of me. My fingers latch onto it and then I turn around on my heel, and as soon as I do the notepad and pen crash to the ground. 

Stan is now standing in front of me as he had somehow snuck into my room, probably making his way through a few walls of the house. His eyes are wide against the pale expanse of his skin like two bright blue splashes of paint against a blank canvas. He looks pretty surprised himself given his current expression and I wouldn't be surprised if he somehow accidentally fell through a couple of walls on his way over here to greet me. 

"Jesus, Stan. You have to stop scaring me like that." I reach out to shove him teasingly but then I quickly retreat my hands upon remembering that I can't touch him and I'm really not willing to go through that same out-of-body experience the first time I shoved myself into him. 

"Sorry, dude." He sheepishly apologizes and scratches the back of his neck while giving me a small boyish smile. When he does grin at me lightly his dimples poke out the tiniest bit and I feel a rush of heat run through my body and a fluttery feeling settles in my stomach for a brief moment. I almost forgot that he had dimples and I'm now I'm pretty damn mad at myself for it now that his wholesome smile just reminded me. His dimples were one of my favorite features of his just because they were so him. "I'm still not really used to the whole new being able to walk through walls thing." 

"You better be sorry, asshole. I shouldn't be so startled in my own house, let alone my own room." I retort and he sighs out in what sounds like relief. 

"There's the old Kyle I know and love. I'm just glad you're being snarky around me again." He teases, and I roll my green eyes but it's in a fond way that shouldn't be taken too seriously. 

"Shut up, dude." I bend my knees to pick up the notepad and pen I dropped upon seeing him but as soon as he senses the sudden movement in my limbs he kneels down insanely fast to do it for me himself. I reach out cautiously out of fear that his hand will just go through the notepad but it doesn't as he picks it up with ease before standing back up straight. Right, he can touch intimate objects. I have to remember that. 

"Thanks, I was just about to say that we should probably start thinking about the people you want to make amends with. You want to write them notes right? And I'll do the talking for you?" I try to confirm and he nods his head simply, his faded raven fringe shifting against his forehead. 

"That's what I was planning, only if you are okay with it." It's clear he wants my reassurance right now. When he was still alive, or in his human form the two of us had a lot of reassuring actions we would exchange with each other. Usually, we would engage in them when I was feeling anxious or he was feeling sad and the gestures could range from a nudge of the toe to a full-blown hug it really just depended on the day. But sadly we can't really do that anymore. So I instead bring my index finger and middle finger up to my eyebrow and then tilt it back to the side into the air around us. Just like that strange greeting that Kenny likes to give us a simple two-finger wave. Stan doesn't really understand this at first however as he furrows his eyebrows together and tilts his head to the side much like a confused puppy dog. 

"This can be our new sign of reassurance for each other because we can't really touch like we used to." His lips form into a small 'o' shape as realization washes over him and he gives me that same boyish grin that I'm so fond of. 

"I actually kind of like that." He tells me. 

"Yeah?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Yeah." He repeats the new gesture bringing his fingers to his eyebrow and then waving them. 

There's a small pause between us after he does this and it's not awkward but he can probably tell that I am slightly taken aback at the thought he actually likes the stupid idea of the weird gesture I just came up with at the top of my head. The silence isn't long however as soon an expression of remembrance washes over his facial features like he just realized something very important. 

"Oh! I have all of the people I want to close things off with written down somewhere." 

"You do?" Already? My eyes follow his translucent figure as he walks over to my desk with ease. He takes a small slip of paper off of the wooden surface and presents it to me with a small tint of confidence. 

"When the hell did you make this?" I ask as I furrow my eyebrows together tightly kind of perplexed as to how he just randomly made this without me even noticing. 

"When you were downstairs having breakfast I wanted to get a little bit of a headstart with the planning because I know that sometimes making lists like this can stress you out. So I wanted to just get it over with so it wouldn't be a huge bother for you." He explains to me and gently hands me the thin paper sheet that is decorated with his somewhat sloppy handwriting. 

"Well, that was very considerate. Thank you." I genuinely tell him as I allow myself to glance over the various names that are written on the white expanse of space. 

The names that are sketched out are his mom, Kenny, Butters, Cartman, his dad, his sister, and Wendy.

"Are you sure you want to write letters with everyone on here?" I try to confirm and he only swallows thickly. That's a no. I can just tell from his suddenly tense body language. 

"If I'm being honest, I don't know if I am. But I know that I have to so it's not like I can really back out of talking to certain people just because I feel like it." That makes sense, and it would be pretty shitty if we just pick and chose who to talk to out of the most important people in Stan's life. 

"Okay, that's fine. I mean I'm also not super excited about some of the people on this list but we'll figure it out." I can't control what slips out of my mouth next. "I don't want to spend too much time at Wendy's when I deliver your note to her." 

I expect him to be upset with this sudden comment or at least hurt in some sort of way given the sour tone in my voice when I just slipped up about referring to his ex-girlfriend. I just sounded disgusted with the thought of even being in the same room as her for more than ten minutes and I know that my unresolved tension with Wendy tends to get underneath his nerves at times. Don't get me wrong, the two of them broke up and their relationship wasn't sunshine and rainbows when they were together, but Stan still tends to be a little defensive over her just on habit due to their long history. But he isn't upset, he isn't even remotely mad at me. 

"Yeah, I don't want you to." He confesses quickly. He doesn't? He isn't offended by my sudden backtalking? I just blink a few times in slight confusion. 

"Okay..." I smooth out a small wrinkle that has managed to find itself in the corner of the list's paper. 

"Would it be okay if we saw my mom first?" He immediately jumps to the next question of our subject and I tilt my head to the side at this. 

"Sure thing, I don't see the problem with that." 

"Her favorite flower is daisies. And I was thinking it would be nice if we brought her some from the florist as a kind gesture, it's really the least I could do for her after putting up with me for my entire life." I find the way he addresses himself as such a burden interesting, but I don't choose to say anything. I mean Sharon is his own mother but he acts like he was some sort of criminal in a jailcell she had to take care of for her job, not her son who was clearly just struggling to get by with life and nothing else too graphic. So I have no idea why he's referring to himself being so damn hard to take care of. Does he think he's this hard to be around with all of his other relationships?

"Yeah, we could definitely do that. Should we both just walk over to her house today? I guess what I'm trying to ask is, are there any specific things you want me to do once I see her?" I should have said 'once we see her' because I want to include him in on this as much as I can. Sharon is his mother after all, not mine and he should be the one who is leading this. Even if the circumstances are...complicated. 

"I think walking over there would be alright. She'll probably thrilled to have you as company no matter what so don't stress about things too much. She's always seen you like family and that probably hasn't changed. You probably don't have to do anything special, however knowing her, she's going to want to show you a couple of things so just be patient." He explains to me as I nod.

"All I can say is, try not to judge my shitty drawings." He jokes around awkwardly but I don't laugh. I would if he were someone else, anyone else. But I'm not because he's the best artist I know, he has the best tactics in sketching and he uses all of the right colors that blend together through smudged pastels and combined acrylics. So why would I laugh about his shitty artwork when all of it could easily belong in a museum one day?

"You're drawings aren't shitty, Stan." I sound defensive over this like I'm defending myself instead of him for some odd reason. 

"C'mon. Don't lie to me, dude." He laughs breathlessly before gesturing me to follow him out the door and to the nearest store to buy some fresh daisies. Before I can protest or defend his artistic ability from himself he leaves me alone with my own thoughts not really being able to make things better for him. Just like always. 

He's the best artist there is in my life, maybe the best artist out of all of the people in this crappy town. And everyone knows that as they're always sure to tell him whenever they have the chance. So why is he so down on himself over something that he clearly has? Something he's good at and makes him happy. Did someone ever tell him he was bad at drawing or did multiple people tell him this instead? And is that really enough for him to start hating his works without even questioning them? 

Maybe it has to do with his depression, even things that he enjoys doing are now uninteresting and unamusing to his under-stimulated mind. Does depression really suck you into even hating something you're clearly a master of? Because if so, that would really explain a lot of his past behavior of quitting various things. Damn. When he suddenly quit all of those clubs and sports in the junior and senior year really makes a lot more sense now. 

It's the same thing with him not deciding to go anywhere for college even when the school year was almost over just a few months ago. He just never thought about college that seriously and I never knew why, I never tried to know why. But maybe it's because he was starting to think he wasn't good at anything. Even the things that he clearly was, such as drawing and painting. He would have done great in art school but he never looked into all the artsy colleges in the Denver area. Did he do that because his confidence was just that low or did he know he wouldn't be alive for college when that time came around? Or a combination of both...

\--

I watch as my footsteps follow after one another as I slowly start to walk across the thin concrete sidewalk over to Stan's mother's house with Stan floating by my side. My fingers are tightly clenched around a fresh bouquet of daisies with bright yellow centers that remind me of the sun on a hot summer day. I'm kind of worried that the stems of the flowers are going to start to wilt due to the heat radiating off of my fingers and the tight grip they are under but I'm relieved to realize that the two of us are almost at the familiar welcoming front yard of her house. 

"Are you nervous?" Stan asks me and I know he's only asking me because he is himself. He knows I probably wouldn't because Sharon and I have always been really friendly around each other. However, I don't think he knows about my intense anxiety episode she had to witness the last time I saw her at his funeral of all places. To make matters even worse, after that whole scene occurred I haven't had the chance to see her since, so I have yet to apologize for my behavior that just fucked her life up even more. I've been thinking about myself too much recently and having that sudden panic attack come on at her son's funeral out of nowhere is a perfect example of my newfound selfishness. I mean, she lost her child for god's sake, her own flesh, and blood. If there's anyone struggling with Stanley Marsh's death more than I am, it's her by far. 

"Not really, I like your mom." It's true, there have been times when she's felt more like my mom more than my own mother. There was a period of time right after I came out as gay when things were really tense with my parents. They weren't angry and they didn't disagree with my sexuality, but they just didn't understand it at first. And whenever I was feeling inferior because of this Sharon was always there to take me in for the night with open arms when I just had to get away from my own family. 

"She likes you." He tells me, his voice somewhat on edge. 

"Why are you acting weird?" I inquire from him because he really has nothing to worry about. I thought I'd be the stressed out one here. But right now even though I could be less tense, out of the two of us I'm pretty well-reserved. 

"How am I acting weird?" He asks me awkwardly and I stop in the pavement path the two of us are walking along. I look up at him with a tilted head and cocked eyebrow, I purse my lips and take in his form before continuing to walk again. His shoulders are held high and his arms are stiff at his sides, it's clear to me given his body language that he's not looking forward to something his mother might show me or tell me.

"I thought I was going to be the anxious one here, but given the way, you're acting it's making me think otherwise," I mutter. 

"I'm not anxious, I just know that Mom is going to take you into my room and show you a bunch of shitty things that she thinks are worthy to be in a museum. Like my crappy drawings from middle school." I can automatically just assume that's some excuse he just came up with off of the top of his head given the way his voice trembled slightly. 

"I think it's more than that," I grumble. 

"It's just going to be hard to see her while you're doing all of the work." He finally confesses and while that's a reasonable complaint, it's not like he can really do anything else. I'm not doing this because it's a burden that I want off of my back, I'm doing it because I want to help him more than anything else and I see him as more of a friend than I probably should. And when that's the case you just want that person to be happy, no matter how hard you have to work. 

"You're giving her the letter," I assure him because really that's the most important part of this whole confrontation. 

"And what else Kyle?" His voice cracks and I can tell that this is bothering him more than he's trying to let on. "I'm not doing anything else because I can't do anything else! And that annoys the shit out of me! Fuck, I can't even hug my own mother when I finally see her after months!" 

I don't say anything back to him after he tells me this, because what can I possibly say? Should I say something along the lines of, sorry that you're dead and you can't even properly talk to your own mom? If I were to say that what kind of asshole would I be? So I just stare back at him dead in his bright blue eyes that are the only part of his body that aren't completely washed away of color. 

"You're doing as much as you can, and that's all that matters right now." I finally say before turning back around on my heel. 

"But what if what I'm doing isn't enough?" He retorts quickly floating back behind me. 

"You're the one who came up with this whole idea, so I think you're honestly doing more than enough. You're also the one who had the idea of giving her daisies.0-" He swallows and given the way he freezes for a moment I've managed to corner him into agreeing with me. "We're almost there, just do as we planned and everything is going to be fine."

\--

The front porch of Sharon's house is welcoming as it's decorated with different flowers that were given to her as sympathy gifts during the funeral. She's done a good job with using every single last one as decoration and I can't help but wonder if the whole lovely setup that could pass as art is a tribute to her deceased son. I suck in a harsh breath before knocking my knuckle against the steel door, causing a soft sound to erupt around us. Stan takes this opportunity of my raised hand to notice my tightly bandaged palm that's clenched as I knock on the door a few more times. He raises his eyebrows in surprise and points a long and slender index finger towards the now apparent wrappings. 

"Dude, what happened?" I ignore him at first as I pull my balled-up fist away from the parallel door surface. However, even if you wouldn't expect it, Stan is one stubborn bastard so he continues to nag. 

"Kyle, how did you..." I abruptly turn around and bring my finger to my lips, clearly annoyed. I just don't want Sharon to open the door as I'm talking to him but she'll just see me talking to empty air given the fact he's invisible to her. He purses his lips and lowers his accusing finger but it's clear to me he's not going to let this go so easily. He knows that I didn't just trip and scrape my soft palms against something rough more than anyone else, I've used excuses like that much too many times to defend the self-inflicted injuries I tend to give myself when I'm panicking. 

"I'll tell you later," I mumble to him underneath my breath before the sound of hurried and distant footsteps grow louder and louder as they approach the front of the house. Both of us still on instinct as the sound of metal scraping against metal echoes through our senses as the lock is dismantled on the other side of the house's entrance. At first, the entryway opens the tiniest bit revealing a sliver of light that seeps out of the living room but as soon as it's revealed that I'm the person waiting outside it's quickly swung all the way open, a gust of air causing me to flinch as it just goes straight through my ghost friend keeping him unfazed and still. 

Upon seeing me, the tiniest smile manages to make its way to my best friend's mother's features and I'm once again reminded how much her grin reminds me of Stan's. I mean really it's practically identical it's kind of scary. They both have the same aligned teeth and the same lips and of course, they both have the same dimples that I could recognize from a mile away. "Kyle, Hello!" She greets, tired enthusiasm prominent in her voice. 

"Hi..." I greet awkwardly, my voice strained and my narrow shoulders held high. I haven't been able to apologize to her for the sudden meltdown the last time I saw her at the sad funeral she put together so of course things are going to be a little strange between us now. 

"Would you like to come inside?" She asks and opens the door further before stepping to the side, allowing me to step past her into the house. 

"Is that okay?" I try to confirm, glancing over at Stan who is still tense at my side an expression drawn on his face that doesn't give away any specific emotion in particular. He's just staring dead at his mother, his lips drawn into a thin line and his head bowed the tiniest bit.

"Of course, you're practically family." I finally oblige and step inside the welcoming presence of her home. I then remember the daisies that I'm holding and I awkwardly splay them out in front of me for her. 

"Me and St- I got these for you at the store on my way over here." I'm quick to correct myself from saying her deceased son's name right in front of her, treating it like he's still around. I mean he obviously is but she doesn't know that at all, I need to be more careful about keeping my mouth shut about his presence that is still here on Earth with everyone else. 

"Oh, Kyle! They're lovely!" She compliments and reaches for them, taking them away gently from my grip. "Thank you so much! I'm going to put them in some water right now." She turns away towards the kitchen but I'm hesitant to follow closely behind her and she picks up on this right away. 

"Come in, you've been here before many times. Nothing is different." She assures. I can't help glancing over at Stan anxiously and he only shrugs his broad shoulders. I breathe in a deep breath before deciding to follow Sharon through the familiar confines of her house. Once I step into the kitchen I notice her filling up an empty glass vase half-way with fresh water from the tap she will place the fresh daisies in to keep them alive for a little while longer. Everything in the kitchen looks exactly as before which is a huge relief for me for some reason and I can't exactly pinpoint why. Although I can tell that Stan feels the exact same way, he's clearly grateful that she hasn't changed things in the past few months. 

"So what brings you over here?" She asks me nicely but clearly curious. I don't blame her, I bet me showing up at her doorstep with a random bouquet of flowers was pretty unexpected. "I haven't seen you ever since the funeral." 

"Yeah, about that," I mutter gently referring to the event that feels like years ago now even though just a week has barely gone by. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I shouldn't have freaked out like that at the worst moment, it was wrong of me and it probably just made things even harder for you. So I'm really sorry I let myself go when I shouldn't have." 

Her eyebrows arch in empathy and she gives me a sad and strained smile. "You have nothing to apologize for. I know that you can get anxious at times and I can't imagine how much pressure you were under with that whole speech. It was irresponsible of me to give you that position when you were clearly so distraught already. I should have known better so I'm sorry too, Kyle. And you didn't make anything harder for me, these past few months have been very rough and depressing in more ways than one but you aren't doing anything to make them worse so please don't tell yourself you are." 

I can feel a weight finally being lifted from my narrow shoulders at her kind words and I don't realize I was holding in a heavy breath until I let it out now. "Thank you, you have no idea how badly I needed to hear that." She gives me a warm half-hearted grin before setting the vase gently down on the countertop and inserting the green stems of the daisies into the clean glass. 

"I know you didn't just come over here to apologize to me, sweetheart. What else is on your mind?" She inquires and positions the flower vase in the middle of the table. 

"I guess I just wanted to talk about Stan, but that sounds pretty stupid now that I say it out loud," I respond while fidgeting with the sleeves of my jacket that just barely go past the tips of my skinny fingers. 

"No, that doesn't sound stupid at all. In fact, I'm really glad you want to talk about him because I haven't had anyone who's come up to me wanting to talk about him. Everyone around me at the moment is acting like they are walking on eggshells and if they say anything about him I'll just start crying. When I want to remember him and bring back memories of him, I don't want to just sit around and feel bad about him dying. I feel bad of course, he was my son and now a part of me is missing. But I just want someone to talk to who will understand this." My eyes widen slightly at how relatable her words are for me. 

"Everyone is treating me the same way, and I hate it! I don't want to be treated so delicately, I just want to remember him too, even it might hurt. I admit a small tinge of shame hidden behind the curtains of my voice. She nods her head knowingly and walks over to my side, placing the warm and comforting palm of her hand against my sharp shoulder blade. The expression on her face falters the smallest bit and for a second I'm worried I might have said something to upset her. When she speaks, that theory is blown away however as I'm reassured by her statement.

"You were almost closer with him than I was, and that really means a lot."Her fingers graze against my shoulder soothingly. "You were always so good to him, and for that reason, I'm eternally grateful for you, Kyle. You were one of the only people who understood him and stayed around in his life, and I know that meant so much to him." Her words flatter me, but they are somewhat awkward to hear because Stanis literally standing across the room watching us with wide eyes as the whole scene plays out in front of him.

"I don't know. Sometimes I worry I wasn't." She furrows her eyebrows in confusion so I begin to explain myself. "If I were there all the time for him, he would still be here. I did things in our relationship that probably really hurt him, both of us had our own selfish ways and sometimes I let mine win. I can't help but think that If I didn't give into my own selfishness and problems, maybe he would still be alive." She sighs heavily at this deep confession. I try my best to avoid eye-contact with the ghost I just talked about all the way across the kitchen. But I can still feel his surprised blue eyes drilling holes into my skull as my own drill into the tile floor beneath me. This is probably just as much for him to hear as it is for me to tell.

"It's not fair to yourself to put that much pressure on always being your best self in relationships. Especially friendships. You're only eighteen Kyle, and so was Stanley. Of course, the two of you were going to have your own times of struggles where you were selfish and hurtful to others. You're human. It would be weird if you didn't mess up in your relationships sometimes. That doesn't mean you were the reason Stanley....passed away." The last two words are very hard for her to muster and it's clear that she's struggling even glossing over the word 'died' whenever she references it.

"But what if I was?" I painfully ask her, my voice hushed and strained.

"Kyle..."I hear someone mutter but it isn't Sharon. Instead, it's Stan who is still in the same spot, staying as still as a statue. This is big news to him even if I've been carrying these thoughts around for the past two or so months.

"There were certain things I could have done better in my relationship with him. I could have recognized that he needed help sooner, and I could have protected him from his father at times when I should have. But that doesn't mean I was the reason he left us. It's taken me hours upon hours to realize that, I used to blame myself too." She confesses. "I went through every last thing I ever said to him that could have set him off, replaying my mistakes in my mind over and over and over again until it hurt. I really thought I would never get over the guilt I felt when he first passed away until I started to clear out his things."

"You cleared out his stuff already?" I ask, slightly offended that she did that without me.

"No, no. I tried to out of impulsive behavior, but I couldn't bring myself to give any of his things away quite yet. The farthest I got was putting a few things in boxes." My shoulders slump in relief because I'm sure there are definitely a few things from Stan'sbedroom that I will want to keep and cherish.

"Oh, okay. That's good to hear." She nods her head. "You got over your guilt by clearing things out?"

"In a way, I still feel awful every single day, but it's starting to get kind of better. Just because I'm starting to realize he would want me to get better." She doesn't have to say anything for me to understand she's referring to her son and my best friend. "There were a lot of things in his art and writings that made me feel like a better mother. He was just pretty reserved about his work so I didn't really know I was mentioned so frequently in his stuff until I read and looked through them myself. I had to know what to throw away and what not to throw away, he wasn't always organized with his things so he commonly did his math homework in his art sketchbook when he got lazy." I snicker to myself because that sounds exactly like something Stan and only Stan would do. I hear him snort as well, breaking the silence that has been looming around him ever since his mother brought up his art and writing.

"That sounds like him." Sharon laughs at my remark and shakes her head fondly at the memories.

"You were his muse. Did you know that?" She asks me and I hear a loud and awkward cough.

"No, I didn't actually," I answer honestly astonished at this random information. I glance up at him through thick eyelashes only to see he's completely stiff and frozen with that same dust of pigment that wasn't there before across the bridge of his pale nose. His translucent hand is scratching his protruding collar bone nervously and he's refusing to look at me despite clearly knowing that I'm staring at him with suspicion. I raise an eyebrow at his odd behavior before refocusing my attention back on Sharon.

"Oh, you were such an inspiration for him. Would you like to see?" I can practically sense Stan's eyes widen from across the room at her offer. I'm sure if she knew he was here somehow she wouldn't have asked me, but how would she know?

"Yeah, I would actually like that." I cautiously agree not really knowing if I'm overstepping some sort of boundary Stan isn't comfortable with me discovering.

"Good! Follow me, his sketchbooks are up in his room." She motions me to follow her through the familiar halls of her house and up the stairs to their bedrooms. I haven't stepped foot in the confines of Stan'sbedroom I know so well ever since I came across...that whole scene.

I'm quickly following behind her walking form and Stan's own ghost-like frame isn't far behind. I glance at the various family photos of the Marsh family that are plastered in various places across the painted walls. Some seem normal and loving, like a normal family while others seem awkward and strained, like a dysfunctional one. I find it ironic that the ones that seem more uncoordinated and uncomfortable are the pictures that have been taken more recently. Stan's parents finalized their divorce in our freshman year, however, they separated when he was in the eighth grade. That's when their last family photo was taken and not a single person is smiling in the picture, making it clear how dysfunctional everything was at that time. This small picture frame is even discarded from the others as Sharon put its somewhere separate from all the other happy ones.

While we've almost arrived at Stan's bedroom, I finally realize how lonely Sharon must be. And the realization hits me like a bag of bricks. Her daughter moved off to college a long time ago and knowing Shelly she doesn't have plans to come back anytime soon. The last time I hear of Shelly was working for a degree in mathematics at a college in Denver. She seems to be doing well according to her social media page but she hasn't posted in a while, I don't blame her, however. I think she has the excuse not to after losing a sibling. And then we all know Stan. He might be here as a ghost, but he's a ghost she can't see or even try to interact with. Unless you count talking through notes, but what can you even really do with that? Exchange doodles?

"Here we are." Sharon breathes out once we step foot into Stan's familiar room. I breath out slightly trying my best to stay composed given what happened last time I stepped foot in this room. For the most part, everything seems the same except for a few boxes that are placed in various places on his untouched bed and messy dresser. There are still the familiar Broncos and space posters along with a few drawings and paintings he was proud of enough to hang up. All the various knick-knacks and decorations are in the same places where he left them and the only ones that are missing are packed away nicely in the cardboard boxes I just mentioned. There is a pile of different sketchbooks stacked onto the flat surface of his desk as Sharon picks them up and brings them over to me.

"Should I sit?" I ask gesturing to his plush bed that's actually made for once. She probably did that out of motherly habit if we're being honest.

"Yeah, sure, if you'd like." I take the open seat and the mattress dips when she sits right next to me, her weight pressing against the plushness of the bed. She gently sets the art books down between us as if they were made of fragile glass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see illuminated Stan's figure finally step into his own room cautiously. His shoulders slump to his sides when he notices almost nothing is different and I can't tell if his body language is positive or negative.

"I don't know which one to start with," I admit shamefully because I feel like I should know more about his art. Although it's not my fault towards the end he was so cautious and picky with what he showed me. Sharon doesn't say anything to help me out much to my dismay but I jump in my skin when I hear Stan's soothing voice instead.

"Start with the one at the bottom." He suggests and I flinch at the suddenness of his comment. I was not expecting that.

His mother seems to notice the sudden jolt in my movement. "Are you okay, honey?" She asks, concern evident in her voice.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, I just got the chills." I grasp for an explanation and it's lucky that I quickly find one. "It's just an anxiety thing." Her lips form a small 'o' in understanding as she nods her head in a small swift gesture. I give him a subtle warning glare that she wouldn't notice and mouths a quick 'sorry' while shrugging his broad shoulders.

I reach for the book that is starting to tear and fade as time passes and delicately turn the front page to reveal a very rough sketch of a cat. The next five pages or so are just of animals, some are frogs, some are dogs, some are even horses. None of them are really that good however which is pretty surprising given some of the other work she's shown me throughout the years. The shading is minimal and the way he used proportions isn't great, but given the fact that this is all the way at the beginning of the first sketchbook, the roughness of the drawings is predictable.

"These drawings of animals were for a school project in the sixth grade. He came home that day and said we had to go get a sketchbook so we drove to the craft store and did so. He was really shocked with how many different types of paper there were, it really overwhelmed him. And then he was even more fascinated with the pencil section. His eyes got all big when we came across the charcoal and graphite." She explains with a kindred expression drawn onto her warm features.

"Yeah, I kind of remember that. He told me all about it over the phone that night. He showed Kenny, Cartman, and me the different animals he drew. Cartman told him that his pencil work was trash and it looked like a preschooler shaded them. Kenny laughed, and I didn't say anything."I reflect. I honestly forgot about that memory until I saw his beginner sketches once again. "He wasn't offended or hurt though. He just nodded his head and told us that he was going to get better. He told us that he liked it, and he was going to stick with it because it made him happy. And he did." I tilt my head upwards at my friend from the memory and a small smile is painted onto his thin lips. His dimples subtly peeking out from his cheeks like stars.

"He really did," She grins proudly before turning the page. The two of us turn many of those pages reflecting on his older drawings that were made years ago now. It feels like they should be displayed in some sort of museum, ancient artifacts made by Stan himself. I know he would hate that though, he's always been so private about his work. And I would never feel comfortable overstepping that boundary of his.

The different doodles and sketches start to improve once we get to the third sketchbook where he started drawing people. Some of the portraits were realistic with well-thought-out portions and complex shading while others were more simple with cartoonish details and brighter colors that were used with colored pencils and alcohol markers. It catches me off guard at what is in the middle of this sketchbook standing right there on the bright white paper looking back at me with familiar eyes. Sharon laughs lightly and points her index finger at the person whose features are delicately sketched out on the paper my fingers clench around.

"You know who that is." It's me. It's Stan's very first drawing of me, staring right back at us. "You were the very first person he drew who he knew well in his life. Up until this point, he drew cartoon characters and reference photos of people online." I breathe out lightly. I had no idea. I knew he drew me before, he did so once for an entire school project. I modeled for him and although it was awkward, it was something that the both of us enjoyed and bonded over.

This particular drawing isn't as good as some of the others that he created based on me but a nostalgic feeling builds up in the bottom of my heart upon seeing it. I try to say something to make conversation like before but when I open my mouth nothing comes out."There's more." She tells me and reaches for the fourth sketchbook. This is the sketchbook of his later sophomore and earlier junior year in high school that she's handing me.

The more pages that the two of us look through the more I realize how much he really did draw me. And after every single one, they just improve more and more. I've seen a few of course, but some of these are really new to me. It's almost like opening a present, every single pencil mark and eraser smear is different from the sketch of my face of all people. Some of these doodles are even in full-color, and he used the different pigments well too. He managed to get the color of my fiery hair right as well as highlighting my green eyes so they stand out more against the pale complexion they are drawn against. I'm not the only one he drew, of course, it would be weird if I was. There are a few of our other friends such as Kenny and Cartman and there is a handful of Wendy. There are a few of his sister, however, they aren't necessarily as good as the others. I'm sure that he botched her appearance on purpose. There is one of Sharon and then a bunch of various animals. However, it's clear that I was the main focus of his works in the creativity of his sketchbook.

"He was really inspired by you, Kyle. You were truly his muse." Sharon finally breaks the silence of me staring mercilessly at the different pages. Stan subtly floats over to me, before shrugging and muttering underneath his breath.

"She's right, y'know? I can't deny it anymore now that you've seen everything, dude."

"Why?"I ask but I'm not quite sure who I'm asking more, him or his mother that's still sitting next to me, completely unaware that he just spoke. "Why do you think I was of all people?"

"Because you were special to him. More than anyone else." She replies but Stan only says,

"I can't just say that you were fun to draw anymore as an excuse." He didn't answer my question but he told me something that was interesting, even if I can't reply to it at the moment.

"I mean yeah, I was his best friend." I spit out, my voice sounding oddly defensive for some reason.

"You were, that's for sure. But that wasn't just it. He didn't draw Kennyor Eric this much, and he certainly didn't talk about them as much either. He had a very deep fascination with you that I've always known about even if he didn't have to tell me." She explains. "It was just there and I knew it was. He did too, but no one ever said anything." Stan's dark pupils are blown wide with horror at what she just exposed about himself. My eyebrows are only furrowed as I nod my head urging her to go on.

"He was so different from the other boys in certain ways. He was sensitive and loved animals, I thought it was just a little kid thing until I noticed the other boys on the playground. What am I saying?"She asks herself shaking her head. At this point, it just sounds like she's thinking out loud instead of inside her head. She's telling me her thoughts but at the same time, I'm listening to them like a radio."I always thought he was into other boys to a certain extent, however, he also showed interest in girls like Wendy so I don't think he was gay. He never got to tell me if he was." My stomach sinks. She never knew about what happened between Stan and me before everything went so wrong for a brief period of time, she doesn't know because he never told her. I slowly turn my head upwards to stare into my ghostly friend in emotion that no one can describe. Does no one know about what happened at that stupid fucking honors student thing he drove me to with our other friends? Is that just something that is going to be banished to his own private closet that he's been hiding in?

He bites his bottom lip in clear anxiety and he scratches his elbow as away to fidget under my searing gaze. My fingernails dig into the soft flesh of my palms in agitation. I mouth his name, being very careful not to say it aloud. His lips part but not to speak, or assure me that Sharon is just confused and she really does know about the few things that have gone down between the two of us. He doesn't do so however which is enough language for my stomach to sink even further all the way through the soft mattress that I'm sitting on.

"Kyle?"Sharon asks and I turn to her with wide eyes. "Are you okay?"

"He never told you?" I ask her with a hidden undertone of hurt evident in my voice. He never told you he was bisexual?

"No, he never said anything about his sexuality even if I tried to get him to talk about it." I'm not going to tell him anything. It's not my right to. It's Stan's right and Stan's only, even if he isn't alive anymore. "I knew it was always something that weighed down on him, and I knew he wanted to tell me something about himself so badly, he just never got the chance to. And Randy was so hard on him sometimes. I just wish he got that closure of coming out to one of his parents in some sort of way."

Stan takes a step backward and I continue to drill holes into his figure with my ignited pupils. He breathes out in one sharp and quick breath before telling me, "I need to change my letter for her. I need to do it now. I have to give her closure even if it's too late."

'You have to give yourself closure.' I mouth steadily. He swallows.

"I'll be right back." That is all he says before he fazes through the painted bedroom wall, leaving no room for me to protest.

"I really wish he did, for so many reasons," I tell her. She purses her lips sadly before blinking her eyes, it occurs to me that she's doing this to try and hold back tears.

"There was one more portrait of you, it was one of his more recent drawings." She tells me and reaches for his final sketchbook that is only filled in about a quarter of the way through because it was designated for his first year in college. The first year in college he never got to.

She flips through the pages almost cautiously before displaying between us to show me. I let out a small gasp at what I see, it's utterly beautiful. Charcoal is layered over different sheens of graphite and different amounts of value built upon different parts. There are the light eraser strokes to create highlights in various places across the sketched features that belong to me. A white gel pen is also used to create more highlights that are mainly drawn in the irises of my eyes that have so much detail they practically look real. No color is used, but it's so well thought out and detailed that no color really needs to be used. It's almost like a black and white photograph that could be posted on a photography website it's just that amazing. I wonder how long it took him to make this. Hours, days, weeks. It couldn't have been short at all. And why did he make this? This is by far one of his best works that are apart of his sketchbook so why is it of me?

"It's...It's beautiful," I mumble, lightly ghosting my fingertips against the paper being careful not to smudge any of the graphite.

"It was his last one." She tells me and my heartbeat bellows in my eardrums like the bass drum at a concert upon hearing this. "You meant so much to Stanley. Not because you were his best friend, but because he truly had so many feelings for you." She doesn't imply if they were romantic feelings or not, but just her words alone are enough to make my heart flutter with hundreds of butterfly wings.

"He meant so much to me too. I wish I told him that more." I reflect, running my tongue against my chapped bottom lip.

"I think he knew he did. You didn't have to tell him, and he didn't have to tell you. Your bond with each other was just so strong." She breathes out gently, her breath fanning against Stan's collection of drawings. "If you were ever the one to end up with Stanley, I wouldn't be upset one bit. Because you two were so close, a bond so strong that no one could describe it."

"Do you mean that?" I inquire, genuinely shocked by her kind words.

"Every last word, Kyle. You two would have been so good together if it were ever a thing."

"You're a good mom, Sharon," I tell her, and I can practically feel her tension dissolve into thin air upon hearing this. She needed to hear that because something tells me she doesn't hear it enough.

"Thank you. And you were a good friend."

"Thank you." I accept and for the first time in forever, it actually feels like I can accept a compliment.

–

"So you never told her, did you?" I ask him while we walk back to my home, finally breaking the silence that has been lingering between us ever since we left his mother's house. 

"I wanted to." He says simply. 

"You did?" I ask, tilting my head to the side to try and gain a better understanding of what he means by that. 

"Yeah, dude. I just never knew how to tell her, even when I thought of all the different ways to come out as bisexual. I just never knew how, you were the only one who knew after we..." He trails off and memories of that night flashback through my head like flashcards. I clench my jaw tightly and swallow thickly to restrain myself from saying something I might regret. 

"That night when things got weird between us, it was just something that happened because we were tired and confused, right Stan? I mean we didn't do it because feelings were involved, we did it because you wanted to experiment and I wanted to do it with someone I could trust. No other reason, right?" I try and confirm. It's clear that both of us have a major case of commitment issues. He doesn't want to be involved in anything that could break his heart to pieces and I don't want to be involved in anything that puts too much insane pressure on me to always be my best self. That's one of the reasons why I never acted on my feelings for him. And when I did that dreadful night that we've been talking about only recently it was because I was exhausted and drunk on impulse. Not only that but Stan is like something on a shelf that I'm not allowed to touch or play with. So of course this is more complicated than just some silly crush. And he knows that. 

"Yeah, yeah. That's the only reason. I mean it's not like we were in love or something weird." He laughs in anxiety and I just exhale sharply. 

"You don't sound convincing," I grumble but he doesn't respond. He only purses his thin lips into a flat line that would be monotone if monotone were an emotion. 

"Ky, it was just a one-night stand. Nothing else. Is that what you want to hear?" He sounds hurt for some reason so I stop in my tracks. 

"It was a one-night stand, Stan," I say slowly, walking him through my words. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a little threatened with how seriously he's taking this. I want to take it seriously to, pretend like it was more. But I shouldn't. It wouldn't be fair to him especially when he's already so vulnerable and hurt with the world. I properly asked him out or anything because I know that our relationship only hurt him in the end just like every other relationship he had been involved in. And because I loved him so much, hurting him was the very last thing I wanted to do. It was painful just to think about.

"What if it was more than that? I know we ghosted each other afterward for a while, but what if we did so because both of us knew it was more than a silly hook-up?" He prys and for some reason I feel all of my emotions spill over like an overflowing bucket. 

"God, would you quit being so sensitive about this?! It was a mistake and I thought we said we would never bring it up again! So just stop letting your emotions cloud your vision."

As soon as I say this, I know I fucked up.

I sound just like his father, and that's never a good thing. And of course, because I sound so much like Randy he flinches back like an abused puppy at my filthy tone and harsh words that belittle his emotions. Shit, this is why I'm such a shitty friend. Sharon was wrong, I'm not a good friend at all. Not when all I do is treat my friends like this, allowing my negative emotions and fears to take me over like a possessed puppet. 

"I'm sorry, Stan. I-I shouldn't have said that I didn't mean it at all and-" I apologize but I'm quickly cut off. 

"No, it's fine. You're right, I was getting ahead of myself and I made you uncomfortable so I'm sorry." He quickly mumbles under his breath nervously and quickly like a hushed mouse. There's a rhythm to his words and it's clear that he's recited this sentence before just, not to me. He shouldn't be apologizing. 

"You didn't make me uncomfortable. Sometimes I just let my anger get ahead of me and I snap at the people I care about when I'm feeling defensive, you did nothing wrong. I'm the one who should be sorry, I belittled your feelings and that was wrong of me." He shrugs. 

"It's fine, Kyle. I'm used to it." This horrifies me. 

"You're used to me belittling you?"

"No, I'm used to everyone else in my life belittling me." He quickly corrects himself understanding that I took that the wrong way the first time around. "You were like the only person I felt comfortable talking with because you didn't." 

"Well, I'm sorry I just did." I apologize but he only shrugs his shoulders. I'm not satisfied with this response but I chose not to bug him any further, I don't want to accidentally hurt him with my uncontrollable temper again. 

"Did you like my drawings?" He asks me, changing the subject. 

"I loved them. You're so talented." His lips twitch to the side at my compliment like he doesn't agree with me as his mind is clouded with self-doubt. 

"No, I'm not." He brushes it off like water off of a duck's back but I know that deep down inside he really does want to accept it and believe what I'm telling him. 

"Sure you are dude. You're one of the most artistic and creative people I know."

"I'm creative and I can draw but it's nothing you could make a career off of." That's total bullshit and he knows it, at this point he's just trying to grasp onto anything to prove he's not good enough. 

"Well that last drawing of me could sell for hundreds. I would buy it from you for hundreds." I try to reassure him but rather than agreeing with me he seems more shocked with the fact that I saw that drawing. 

"You saw that one?" Was I not supposed to? 

"Of course, your mom showed me right before we left" I reply nonchalantly, he's acting like this was some sort of big surprise I wasn't supposed to know about. 

"Oh. It was going to be a gift for you." Well, that would explain his sudden change in behavior. 

"I would still like it if you'd like to give it to me" He changes the subject once again, avoiding my offer. 

"I'm sorry I drew you so much, you were probably really creeped out by it. I know I would be." He apologizes and I laugh under my breath at his words. 

"Dude, it's fine. I was your best friend, of course, you were going to draw me a lot." Given the conflicted expression that is painted onto his washed-out and faded features, I can tell that he has more to tell me he just doesn't know how to quite put it into words yet. 

"It went well, seeing Mom, I mean." He tells me and I look up at him with a tiny grin splayed onto my chapped lips at his proudness. He deserves to feel that every once in a while, even if it's brief. 

"Yeah, it really did."

"Are you going to tell me what happened to your hand?" He asks, gesturing down to the gauze that's sticking to my palm with medical tape wrapped around it to keep the cotton in place. It's lightly dotted with blood that's starting to dry and once he points it out I quickly bury both of my hands into the pockets of my baggy jacket so he isn't able to stare at the self-inflicted injuries. 

"I'll tell you another time." And with that, we continue walking along the rough pavement back to the safe confines of my home. 

\--

Stan's First Letter

Dear Mom, 

I've never been good at expressing myself through words even if I tried to, and you know this. You always have, I think that's one of the reasons why we were so close with one another. But while I'm writing this note for you I'm going to try my best to use my words to give you closure because that's what you deserve as someone who was always so caring toward me even when I was pretty difficult to put up with. 

I never really had to tell you how I was feeling because you already knew, and unlike the other people who knew, you acted on it and took care of me unlike everyone else. There were times when neither of us knew what to do when it came to my mental health and decisions. Maybe as my parent, you should have gotten help for me but at the same time, I should have recognized I needed it and asked for it earlier on. 

Even if you were my mother, you had no control over my emotions. You also couldn't help the fact that I didn't know how to handle my emotions in healthy ways either. So please don't blame yourself for the way I viewed myself and the world around me. Because it wasn't your fault.

I feel like whenever a child hurts themself, people blame it on the parents. And while in certain situations it would make sense, in ours it didn't. We were both flawed in different ways, and even if we tried to fix those flaws their impact wouldn't' just go away. And at least you knew these flaws were there. You never pushed me to the edge of ending things even if we did fight at times. You pulled me away whenever you had the chance, and I know it was hard to. 

I know that I can be like my dad sometimes even if I don't want to be, and for that reason, I'm really sorry. I can be reckless and impulsive, acting before I think things through and then turning to unhealthy coping mechanisms to fix the problem. I know that that sort of thing is hard to put up with, but you still did even after everything he put you through. I always had this fear that I reminded you too much of him and because of that you would block me out, but you didn't. And that means so much. 

You were willing to fight with me and for me and not against me even when you probably wanted to. So for that reason thank you so much. I can't put into words how grateful I was and still am for you. You're all I could ask for in a mother, even if we're both flawed. So because of your loyalty, you deserve closure more than anything else. 

I never got to tell you, but I like boys and girls. 

I'm sorry I never came out to you, and I didn't keep it to myself because I was worried you wouldn't accept me. I kept it to myself because I just never knew what to say. I still don't, but I wish I could so I could tell you with my words even if it would be awkward. At least I'm finally telling you through this letter, it's better than nothing. 

Something tells me you always knew I also liked boys. So this probably isn't a surprise to you, but I'm still glad that I finally got to come out even if it's too late. It's too late for a lot of things, I know that. But it's not too late to give you closure, even if it's through a letter instead of through face to face. 

Thank you for always being there whenever you could, even if it was hard. 

I love you, Mom. 

-Stanley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This chapter was really hard for me to write for some reason, especially because the two of them are finally together again I had to write both of their reactions to different things and then I had to include more dialogue compared to earlier chapters. But I got it done so that's good! Anyways, thank you for being patient and I'm sorry I suck so much at endings. Hopefully, I'll get better one day. Thank you for reading and stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I'm so sorry it took me so long to update this chapter! I wrote a flashback to go at the beginning but then I took it out at the last moment because I felt like it was just unnessacary to the plot. I've also been really busy with school but I'm so happy to finally have the chance to post. I hope you guys enjoy and leave kudos if you'd like! :)

Stan sits or rather floats in front of my desk across the room as he taps his fingers repeatedly in some sort of rapid pattern of constant nervousness. Sometimes even letting his fingertips sink through the flat surface of my desk that he's currently writing his next letter on. I glance up at him through my eyelashes from my comfortable spot on my plush bed with a book in my lap and the palms of my hand resting on the different paper pages filled with various words and descriptions. I raise my eyebrows at the clear anxiety that runs through his veins like thin water from a river.

"Dude, are you okay?" I ask him in a perplexed tone, not really taking in the who he could be writing this next note to.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He responds a little too quickly giving me proof that he actually isn't. He's always been much too quick to respond to questions whenever something is bothering him.

"You don't seem fine. What's going on?" He mentioned this morning when he visited me again for the fourth time since being a ghost that he wanted to get some closure with his father first to get it out of the way before anything else. And given the way he's been acting ever since he came into my room, communicating with Randy for the first time in a while after everything happened must be where all this tension is coming from. Afterall, it's no secret that things between the two of them didn't go well before Stan took his own life. He had gotten into one of the worst and most damaging fights with his dad about a week prior before overdosing so it's no secret that the two didn't leave things off that well.

"I am, it's just that I have so many things to write down in this letter but I don't have that much time to do it." He mutters without turning around to face me and make direct eye-contact, instead, he scribbles something roughly down on the piece of now-wrinkled paper in front of him in a bundle of sudden nerves.

"I don't think it's a good idea if you cover everything that went down between the two of you. Probably just the most important things that left an impact on your lives." I try to reason but the idea washes through him like it was a bullet going straight through a wooden plank, and then the evident tension in his voice when he speaks again is the sound of the metal crashing through the plank, flakes of wood traveling in every direction around it.

"That's the problem, there were a lot of things that occurred between the two of us that had lasting effects on us, especially me. So it's pretty damn hard to just choose a couple of things to write down." I feel my shoulders tense on instinct at the sudden sharpness in his voice but I know not to take it personally. I knew that reaching out to Randy would be one of the hardest things to do for him, especially with their last interaction with each other. I've been dreading going over to the man's house to deliver this letter but I can't imagine the amount of uneasiness Stan is going through right now. Regret, fear, nervousness. All of those combined into one mind and body at once in a mixing pot is never a good fit for anyone.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled. This is just....really hard for me to do." He admits shamefully turning his head downward to stray away from me even more. It hurts watching him do this given the fact that we're already so far away from each other. I mean he's probably in the spot that's farthest away from me in my familiar bedroom, it's almost like he's trying to avoid me. I shift against the messy bedsheets and push my weight off of the soft mattress I was just sitting on comfortably. I hobble over to him the best I can because my legs are slightly numb and half-asleep from sitting for such an extended period of time. He cranes his neck towards me when he seems to notice that I dismounted the bed, his eyes widening as he notices that I'm walking directly towards him.

"Stan I-" I start to reach my hand out to graze my fingertips over the side of his pale and washed-out cheek but I furrow my eyebrows and close my eyes painfully tight when I remember that I can't do that anymore. Fuck.

"What is it, dude?" I was so close to caressing his face in my hands and he seems to notice that I was trying to as that same familiar shade of grey color rises to the bridge of his sloped nose. It doesn't take me long to notice the way his hands are spread out into claws and protectively guarding the various words tattooed to the front of his letter from my sight. I sigh sadly and gesture to the piece of crumpled paper with the extended arm I was just previously reaching out to him with.

"You don't have to hide this whole thing from me. If I can see it, maybe I'll be able to help you add onto it more." I suggest and he thickly swallows at the offer as it contemplates in his mind. A few brief seconds pass before he hesitantly nods, slowly bringing his stiff and spread-out fingers off of the front of the note. When he does, I make the same gesture the two of us came up with only yesterday before going over to speak with his mom. I bring my two slender fingers to the temple of my head before waving them outwards gently as a small sign of comfort and it relieves me when he visibly realizes what I'm trying to do, so I don't look like a total idiot. A small smile twitches at his lips and a snort of laughter erupts from my throat for some reason when his eyebrows quirk in some sort of awkward way. His grin widens as he reaches over to the crumpled piece of paper and hands it to me gently.

"Here you go, dude," I mutter a quick thanks before grabbing it from him lightly and allowing my green eyes to glance over the messily scribbled out words on the front of the thin paper material, some of the ink imprints are smeared and splotched, while others are violently crossed out in place of erasing them. I can't help it when my eyebrows furrow on instinct and he seems to notice the small action as he lowers his hovering frame away from my desk so he's closer to my level.

"There's something wrong with it, isn't there?" He asks a tinge of sadness and regret evident in his voice.

"I mean, there's nothing really wrong with it. It's just kind of violent and dark, and I don't think that's really what you're going for." Randy was a piece of shit that no one really cares for that much due to the irresponsible behavior that he never seems to get a hold of, however, if we're trying to get closure between Stan and his drunken mess of a father I really don't think that angrily dragging him in a letter that's supposed to be making things better is going to reach that level of making amends.

I mean, I get it. Stan probably has every right to insult Randy in this letter if we weren't trying to reach a different objective of changing things for the better. Almost every single experience I had with his dad in our later teenage years after Stan's parents finally split up after nearly twenty awkward and uncomfortable years of marriage was far from enjoyable. Things he did when we were still naive children in an elementary school like driving us home from some sort of schooling event almost black-out drunk, now seem to be tame compared to some of the other stunts he's pulled just recently. Whether it be throwing a violent scene in the middle of a Chilli's on the side of the high-way embarrassing everyone at the table just trying to eat their food or screaming outside of Sharon's house right before the crack of dawn practically on his knees begging her to take him back and allow him to see the kids even though Shelly left for college years ago. And those are some of the lighter moments of his deranged behavior, there are times when it's gotten much worse.

Randy Marsh is a perfect example of why I don't want to become an alcoholic. Alcohol is the sort of thing that is strong enough to easily ruin your life if you hardly even give in to it. Then you can only watch yourself as you start to spin and spin and spin out of control before it's too late. And before you know it you're just another sad drunk who is so out of they don't even realize what they're doing with their life anymore. And ending up like that, someone with no control or morals because they think the intoxicating warped vision they see from drinking can after can of Bud Light is the real-life world, would be one of my worst nightmares.

I was Stan, I would probably hate Randy almost more than anything else especially after all of the stunts he's had to put up with over the years created by his own father. But what fascinates me the most is the fact that somehow Stan stuck by him for so long. I understand that Stan is one of the more loyal people I know, but I feel like things get to a certain point when you just have to move on with your life without turning back, even if it's family. Because sometimes when it comes to people like Randy, turning away is the best thing you can do for both people in the relationship.

"No, there's nothing really wrong with it." He sighs and shoves his face in his hands in distress. He limps over to the bed across from us and collapses onto it, sinking through the plush surface for a brief second before catching himself with his ghost reflexes. It's been almost four days and I'm still pretty perplexed on how ghost physics works as he likes to call it. "Fuck, I didn't even mean to sound insulting."

"You know you don't have to confront your dad about every single fucked up thing he's done, right?" I ask him, and it might sound like I'm joking but the agitated tone in my voice clearly gives it away that I'm not.

"Yeah, I know. If that were the case I could probably write an entire goddamn book." He grumbles and continues to stressfully rub the palms of his course and tired hands into his face.

"You probably could," I mutter under my breath and he laughs bitterly.

"His name in my phone contacts before I died was literally 'asshole'. I still wonder if he found out about it, although he's probably too dumb to even log into my phone and access my contacts in the first place." I stifle a laugh because it's really not funny and the way he mentions the way he died so casually is bound to make anyone uncomfortable, but for some reason, I can't help the laughter bubbling out of my throat. No matter what the circumstance is, making fun of Randy Marsh is always absolutely hilarious.

"Look, I really don't think it's necessary to write about every single thing in your relationship that went wrong because you'll be stuck here in my room all day." I begin to suggest as the giggles between us start to evaporate back into thin dull air. "But we should tackle the worst parts of your relationship that hurt both of you above everything else."

"Shit, there was so much. Too much, honestly." He grumbles and sinks farther into the mattress as a way to find cushioning to comfort himself. "There was this one fight the two of us had recently, the one before I...ended things. That was the last time I ever saw him. And of course, we went at each other's fucking throats. I'm still kind of recovering from it because it was so bad."

"I mean that's not good the two of you got into that fight, but maybe if you tried to capture only the aspects of that disagreement you had, this whole thing would be a lot easier to get through." I suggest, grimacing at how inconsiderate I sound. I don't mean to come off that way, but I really am just trying to help him even if it's awkward and I'm dry of advice.

"Do you remember when I first started to stop calling him 'dad', and instead just by his real name?" He inquires and even if the question seems random I know it isn't given what he's about to bring up.

"Yeah, I remember that. What about it?"

"That's how the fight started. He wanted to know why I started to call him 'Randy' instead of 'Dad' and I tried to explain to him that I just didn't think he deserved that title after all the crap he'd put me through over the years. And I don't know, maybe that was a little bit disrespectful, but it was for the right reasons."

"He tried to justify his right to be called 'dad' didn't he?" I cock a brow knowingly and a soft yet distressed sigh wavers through Stan'sthin and colorless lips.

"Of course he did, many many times. Like a broken record player or something. But I wasn't buying it, I had bought his bullshit for my entire life while putting up with his treatment to the point I was numb. And I was at a spot where everything in my life was spiraling out of control so I had nothing to loose. I was just drunk on impulse and temptation."

"So, what happened?"

"I started to accuse him of things I probably shouldn't have. Telling him that he never loved me, Mom, or Shelly. I genuinely thought that he didn't, but looking back now I thought that because my mind was so clouded with my own problems I wasn't considering his own."

"Why are you defending him? You always do when you shouldn't be!" I defend, an edge of sharpness laced through my voice that he clearly picks up on well.

"I'm not defending him I'm just saying that I was in the wrong to. Less than he was, but I still wasn't entirely innocent. The two of us are just too similar yet different all at the same time, neither one of us can ever be perfect." He sheepishly explains to me shrugging his shoulders against the ruffled sheets of my bedspread.

"He doesn't have to be perfect but that doesn't mean he had the right to hurt you as much as he did. So don't defend him." I tell him finally, proud of my final response. Stan only looks at me blankly with some sort of haze glazed over his eyes as I speak.

"God, how are we even going to confront him given the fact we both hate him so much?" I don't say anything. I wish I had an answer but no matter how hard I think and scan through the thoughts kept at the back of my mind I can't manage to come up with an answer.

"Let's just work on your letter and we'll see where to go from there," I tell him and try my best to smooth out the small wrinkles that are scattered all across the material of the crumpled paper that is starting to tear around the edges. Making amends with Stan's dad is going to be just like straightening out this crumpled piece of paper. But one thousand times more complicated. We're both going to have to smooth over smashed together lines against an already rough surface and then just expect things to get better. Fuck, this is going to be difficult. 

"Okay..." He drones, sounding exhausted already which isn't exactly comforting given we haven't even gotten that far on fixing his note quite yet.

"Okay?" I tilt my head towards him, giving him a nod that I hope is reassuring somehow.

"Yeah...Hey Ky?" My name rolls off of his tongue smoothly with ease, like some sort of lyric apart of a song.

"What is it?"

"Nevermind."

Peaceful silence swallows us whole.

–

It took us about a good hour and a half to finally plot out and write a note to Randy that both Stan and I were proud of. It was a long process that was definitely far from easy with lots of frustrated groans and subtle glares passed between the two of us at what we were writing but we eventually did get it done. It was difficult and almost excruciating at times to get everything Stan wanted into the letter and the reminder of how painful that whole process was isn't sitting right with me as we speak and I'm walking down to Randy's shit-hole of a home with Stan following me closely at my side.

His shoulders are held high and practically his entire body is stiff but at least he's moving alongside with me. I was kind of worried he wouldn't even come by my side to do this and deliver the letter but I'm relieved that he is. Stan might have many different grudges against his out-of-place father but that doesn't make him a dick, he would never in a million years leave me to resolve his own problems with Randy under any circumstance. Even if he is only a ghost.

"This will be fine." He tells me but I'm not really sure if he reassuring me or himself out loud.

"Yeah, this will work. I mean, it shouldn't be a huge deal." I try to say that as casually as I can but as soon as the words fall from my lips I realize I sound more like an idiot than anything else.

The walk to Randy's townhouse is peaceful, and despite the cloudy and gray weather it doesn't rain which is always a relief. The rain is fun to watch and listen to, but when it comes to walking across town in it, it's not always the best. Both Stan and I discuss various things and at one point I ask him, "Have you had the chance to draw anything since you became a ghost. I know you can still pick up a pencil and paper with no effort, I'd be surprised if you haven't at least doodled."

He bashfully smiles at this, showcasing his dimples that practically glimmer like stars during a dark and cloudy night. The soft blush that dusts the bridge of his sloped nose and pale cheeks doesn't go unnoticed and even if my comment was causal and only a question to make conversation, it's clear that it still somehow flustered him.

"Yeah, I've had the chance to sketch out a few things. But it's nothing super big." He finally replies once he stops biting his chapped bottom lip with his teeth in shyness.

"Oh? Are you going to show me them? I'd love to see." I lean in towards him lightly, grazing my shoulder against his long arm just touching him enough to feel that a tinge of that strange out-of-body tingling sensation from the night when we were first reunited with each other.

"When I'm finished. You'll just have to stay tuned." His voice bounces at the end excitedly and for the first time in ages, it sounds like he is actually excited to share his works with me. Maybe the visit to his mom's house did him well with his confidence in his artistic ability after she showed me some of the various drawings he's created over the past few years. And if that's the case I can't express how relieved I am, he should have felt the right to be proud of his doodles all along so it means a lot that he's finally starting to open up to showing people the creative confines of his sketchbook even if it took a while to get there.

He stops abruptly in his footsteps causing me to stumble backward the tiniest bit at the sudden stop but I'm quick to catch myself before smashing against the rough concrete sidewalk beneath us. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion with an edge of frustration towards the suddenness of his action. "Dude, what the hell? What's wrong?" I wonder aloud, extending my splayed arms out around me in expression.

"We're here. This is the place." He raises his own lanky arm and extends his calloused index finger outward in the direction of a run-down townhouse building that we're standing in front of. My lips form a small 'o' in the realization that this is where his dad lives and this is where the two of us will awkwardly be spending the next few twenty minutes or so until things resolve somehow.

If I'm being completely honest, I had no idea that Randy's townhouse was in such a shitty location. I mean, ideally, you don't really want to live on the side of a random road in the middle of town where any group of bored teenagers can drive by in the middle of the night after some lame party to egg and TP your house. There were times when I had visited this location to drop something buy or to pick up Stan in Kenny's truck and it was a shit hole back then, but now somehow the level of sleaziness has gone up. I'm once again reminded why Stan would only have his friends over when he was staying at his mother's house, and not his dad's. That whole concept makes a lot of sense to me now while I'm staring at the low-quality building that is currently in front of the two of us.

"Oh, I thought that your dad moved across town." It's true, there was a point in time where Randy was seriously considering leaving this low-life complex and getting a new house across town. He was looking into hiring different realtors and everything, however, I suppose his plans had changed at the last minute. I think that most people knew he wasn't going to go after a new house, it was just another one of his random fantasies he came up with while he was high off of weed, smoking like a chimney in the middle of a Tuesday night. I knew to, but I guess I was just hoping it was more than that. I know how many bad memories this place holds for Stan and just staring at it probably brings things back.

"He was thinking about it. He never actually did after he realized how expensive buying a new house is." Stan sneers, clearly looking down on his father's naive thinking.

"It isn't cheap, that's for sure." I adjust the backpack that is hanging loosely from my shoulders, it contains all of the things I would need for walking all the way across town for the day. A large metal water bottle that keeps liquid cool for twelve hours, a portable phone charger that would be very nice to have in case my phone unexpectedly died, some zip-lock bags filled to the top with snacks that my mother insisted I bring, and of course, the tightly enveloped letter that has recently been polished and looked through several times.

"Are you ready?" I turn to my visually agitated friend who's chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyebrows threaded together with his lips drawn into a thin and simple line.

"No." He blandly answers. "But I'll go in." This is enough to make me smile to myself at his courage. He always has been willing to do things even if they aren't appealing, I've always admired that about him. I think that's one of the first things I found attractive and intriguing about him as the two of us started to grow out of our old middle school selves and we both started to come to terms with things around us more. He was the type of person who would participate in things he didn't always like if it meant that his friends were happy in the end. And usually, that's very admirable.

The walk over to the front steps of the small and bland concrete porch in front of the white steel door is short but it seems like it takes almost decades as the two of us slowly pace towards the front of the town home's residence. My vision is narrowing in on the spot in front of me on the ground, the pavement tile of the old walkway to the entrance of Randy's home, the rock is cracked and ignored as various weeds such as dandelions find themselves threading through the extremely thin openings.

The place has little to no decoration and unlike Sharon's front doorsteps, there are no flowers at all that were sent. The only form of décor is a small glass flower pot with an old painted glaze that has started to chip off of the porcelain and its continents are a dying house plant that was left outside in the cold for too long along with several flies that cruise around the withered leaves. The area around us is so bare that a tumbleweed could probably blow by like the ones in old western films. I know if I said something (Even if I was quiet and reserved,) my voice would ricochet off of the walls of the room like one of those cheap bouncy balls you can find at the toy store.

"Do you think he's even home?" I mutter aloud glancing over at my tense friend. It doesn't matter how overwhelmed and nervous I am, my own stress levels could never compare to Stan's at the moment. Both of us are well-aware of that.

"He has to be. He's unemployed." That's right, just recently Randy was fired from his job for poor attendance and drinking too much and then proceeding to show up at work intoxicated. I suppose his boss was just over it and let loose on him, forcing him to put all of his belongings in a sad and small cardboard box before leaving to never show his face again. And of course, he then had to make it everyone else's business. I think that was honestly one of the last times I heard of Randy before the funeral, although he left early from that event to so it's not like I really had the chance to interact with him.

"This will be fine," I utter to Stan but once it leaves my lips I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or myself. He doesn't say anything however I can hear him exhale heavily throughout his nose at my casual but not so casual statement.

I press the tip of my finger against the small doorbell on the side of the door's painted frame with just enough pressure that it can ring. There's a split second of nothingness before I repeat the same action so the sound can be heard again. Stan clears his throat awkwardly before gesturing to the doorbell muttering underneath of his hushed breath, "I think it's broken."

Of course, it is.

I furrow my eyebrows in instinct at the inconvenience but just choose to knock on the door instead. There's no way you can break knocking. I raise my arm to knock on the cool steel door that's only inches away from us now despite my elbow and wrist feeling like they're being weighed down by heavy led. The bent joints of my knuckles bump against the parallel surface of the home's entrance several times but there's no answer.

"Son of a bitch." I grumble with gritted teeth. Unless he's sleeping (Which is actually very likely considering whose house this belongs to.), what's even the point of coming here?

"Just give it twenty more seconds, he'll come," Stan reassures me even though the tone of his voice is very unamused. He has probably had to go through this same process time after time again to the point it just doesn't even affect him anymore even as only a spirit.

And as if on cue, behind the entrance separating us from the world on the other side of the door, there's a loud noise that can only be described as something suddenly falling to the floor with a harsh boom. A string of curses that sounds much like a man's voice follows the crash as the profanities grow louder and more prominent as the person inside comes closer. Footsteps creak against the floorboards inside and it's fascinating that I can even hear the wood screeching all the way outside even though it should be muffled by the townhome's wall.

Suddenly, the hinges of the doorframe screech a terrible scream that sounds like rust chafing against more rust and the slam of the metal chain lock hitting against the wood of the same door frame following along with it. Randy has finally managed to open the door after many attempts to even if it seemed like a pretty simple task.

"Look, I don't have time for solicitors right now. I don't want whatever the hell it is you're selling so just fuck off." I can hear Stan muffling a strained laugh with the back of his hand beside me.

"Uh, I'm not a solicitor," I tell him, the words coming off as dry and bland from my tongue.

Silence.

"Oh." Is all both Stan and I can hear. If his dad hasn't realized by now that I'm his son's old best friend after speaking I honestly don't know if he ever will.

The chain lock on the very edge of the door is undone by tired fingers as the door is finally opened more, enough so now I can actually have a conversation with the person on the other side of the barrier. Once it's pushed open all the way, I take in the appearance of the man who's now standing in front of me and it hurts to say that he's almost unrecognizable.

Baggy clothes hang low on Randy's shoulders followed by old gym socks for footwear. His dark hair is unkempt and dark bags have found their way underneath the rims of his exhausted eyes to rest.

He never really been the type to be put together all the time or at least not in the safe confines of his home, but he just looks like an absolute wreck right now. He could practically pass as someone whos been sleeping on the streets at this point, and I know it's a dick-move to say that. But I can't even really be nice at this point even if I wanted to. How can I after all the stunts he's pulled? All the moments he's ruined? All the tears he's caused? And after what he did to the perfectly fine family that didn't have to fall apart with such ease just because he got bored. I can't be nice when I'm staring at the man who has hurt and practically abused the person I care about the most.

"Kyle...This is unexpected." I guess I could take that as a greeting in some sort of way depending on who you ask, but I only cross my arms over my chest almost protectively and lean to the side towards my friend and his son that he doesn't even know is present.

"Yeah, well I just wanted to drop a couple of things off while I still could," I tell him and shift my shoulder so I can retrieve the sagging backpack from behind my frame. I can feel Stan's irises follow the motion of the bag swinging downwards towards the ground trying to look at anything but his dad in front of him he hasn't been able to see for a very long time. I'm sure this is all very strange and any distraction right now counts.

"You didn't have to do that." It would be a nice sentence, one of gratitude and respect. But the way it rolls of his tongue signifies that it's really not and my presence to him in this moment is nothing more than a burden.

"Stan would have wanted me to." That's the real reason I'm here. If I had the choice, I would refuse to walk all the way across town to Randy's shit-hole of a house only to be greeted with his disrespect that I could definitely live without any day. But this is for Stan, the person who's the closest to me in more ways than one. The person I would risk my own flesh for, so of course, I would take time out of my day to put up with his father and give the man the things that Stan had left behind for me. This is really the only form of bonding Stan and I have left, and even though it's depressing and doesn't really make you feel that good thinking about it, I'm still taking it seriously and trying to enjoy every last step of the way for him. Because that's what you do when you love someone. I could probably try and teach people like Randy a few things about it.

I unzip the plastic ridged zipper on my old backpack and the sound resonates through the bare walls of the house's front porch. If I could choose a color to represent this setting it would be bland hospital or asylum white. I can hear Randy sigh above me in annoyance at nothing in particular.

"Here, he wanted you to have this before he passed away." I stand back up straight again once I take the letter and extra drawing Stan sketched out on a spare sheet of paper before we left my house and extend my arms outwards to hand to Randy who's still fairly far away from me.

"What is it?" He mumbles, gently taking both of the envelopes from the loose grip of my slender fingers.

"It's..."I glance over at Stan who has finally gathered up the willpower to stare his dad down. His expression is blank and tired but not anything in particular. The glint of exhaustion hidden in the dark pupils of his eyes just shows off his clear disappointment and although that's not the best emotion I'm pretty glad that it's not fear or anger. "It's just a letter and drawing he wanted you to read."

"A drawing?" Randy sounds almost offended by this and the scoff coming from next to me doesn't go unnoticed (By me, Randy can't hear it.)

"Yeah, he made it for you. Isn't that kind?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"I guess," Randy grumbles.

More silence.

"Okay. I gave you what I came here for, now it's time for me to leave." I turn around on my heel and start to head towards the cracked concrete porch steps but before I can get too far I can hear him clear his throat loudly. I turn around on instinct with a raised brow and I take notice that the door is now fully opened. Stan is still standing like a statue in the exact spot he was before, watching me walk down the steps in an attempt to escape. It's like he knew that our time wasn't quite over yet.

"Do you want to come inside? Just for a few minutes?" Randy asks me gesturing to the inside of his house and I visually hesitate.

"You don't have to, Ky." Stan tries to tell me. I give him a small nod in recognition because that's really all the only form of communication aside from the awkward eye-contact we have at this moment. Randy however seems to think that this nod is for him as he steps to the side of the tall door frame to let me in.

"I can't stay that long," I inform him and he shrugs his shoulders limply. I don't think he even really cares if I leave or stay, he just wanted to let me inside as a kind gesture so he doesn't look like a total asshole. And he probably hasn't had company in a very long time if you think about it, he's probably lonely in some sort of shape or form.

I step inside and as soon as I do he closes the door. I catch myself saying something about Stan who's still standing patiently outside by swallowing down my words thickly. The pale glow of his body is quick to faze through the drywall of the house anyway with hardly any effort and from the looks of it he's finally getting used to walking through walls and whatnot. The sight is unnatural and something I can't really describe with words, but it happened and that's all I can really say.

If the outside of Randy's house was blank and bland, the inside of his house is a dump. Stray trash bags filled with god knows what are placed in different areas of the living spaces and pieces of spare waste like empty chip bags are thrown astray across the carpet that probably hasn't been vacuumed in months. Empty beer bottles and liquor containers are also scattered across table tops and seating areas, some of them are even shattered across the messy floor. The place hasn't been cleaned since at least Stan'sfuneral which was several weeks ago now. It's a fucking wreck and that's almost putting it nicely. Although as much as I dislike Randy, I can't really blame him for the state of his home. My room hasn't been that clean either in these past few months either so I probably shouldn't be talking. But the area is practically unrecognizable just like its owner it's so out of place.

"That's fine. You probably have very important things to do, like getting ready for college."

"Actually, I'm taking a gap year. So I don't have a lot going on." I mutter. It shouldn't be embarrassing but it feels like everyone just expects so much from me due to my performance in high school. I mean I was in the honor student's program for God's sake, telling people that I'm taking a gap year isn't really what you would expect. Especially after earning a few scholarships to impressive schools, it's not like they're going to go away or anything but you can't be sitting on your ass for a year expecting your knowledge and smarts to remain up to date with the college contract you're basically signing.

Randy snorts which doesn't help and Stan only sighs at his uncontrolled antics. "That doesn't sound like something a kid like you would decide to do." He teases but not even a subtle chuckle leaves my lips.

"Yeah, well you don't really want to do anything after you're best friend dies." He goes dead silent you could practically hear a pin drop against the floor and run away. He's not saying anything at all flips a switch at the back of my mind for some reason and I can't stop myself before I snap.

"Do you even care that he's gone?" I asked, anger evident in my voice.

"Kyle," Stan warns but it's too late.

"Because ever since it's happened I've heard nothing from you. Fucking nothing. And I don't think anyone else has either. And when you don't hear anything you start to question things. I've honestly started to wonder if you did anything wrong and you're just so absorbed with your own self-guilt you cut off all contact with people around you. People who actually do care about Stan." I could go on more of a tangent but I'm quickly cut off.

"I did care about my son!" Randy shouts suddenly and I can't help but flinch at the sudden eruption of his voice. Stan seems to be unfazed by it which only causes me to feel even more on edge about the whole situation, although I suppose it's not a huge surprise that he pretty much used to his father's yelling and subtle insults.

"Then why did you treat me the way you did?" Stan mutters underneath his breath, I quickly pick up on the question.

"Then why did you treat him the way you did?" I repeat his own words myself and his father's shoulders visibly sink several inches in defeat at the loaded question. He sighs deeply and brings his hands up to his face, rubbing at his tired features exhaustedly in distress. He backs away from me and falls into the couch before sitting down on its plush cushion with his fingers tightly laced through the dark locks of his hair.

More silence falls over the room and the quietness is becoming so familiar now it's practically painful. I almost feel like enjoying the silence because it takes up this strange time instead of listening to Randy rant and make things about himself. Which to my surprise, he hasn't quite done yet so far.

"He thought that you hated him..." I trail off, questioning in the back of my mind if I should have said that. It's the truth, there have been countless times of Stan driving all the way to my house at 3 am just so I could comfort him and hold him close after fighting with his father, whispering in his ear that everything would work itself out. If only I actually meant those words, maybe he would still be here today. Or all the times at school when he kept his hood above his head while our friend group walked through the long halls as he stalked slowly behind us trying his best to keep his head down to hide the heavy bags underneath the rims of his blue eyes. The dark circles that signified his lack of sleep and well-being that was being wasted down the drain from all the nights of staying up late, listening to his parents fight until dawn. Or even after their divorce from spending most of his nights up late where he had to drive down to the town's bar where Randy was passed out, picking him up before taking him back home where the two of them could be safe again. Or at least somewhere familiar, maybe not safe. 

Randysighs at my statement once again as he stares off into the distance, directly at a Marsh family picture that's resting delicately on the table across the room. The glass from the frame is cracked down the middle and the frame itself is starting to chip around the edges, showing off its brokenness. "I could never hate him." He finally tells me.

"Then why did it seem like you did?" I ask the question that has been on both Stan and I's minds since we started talking about his father and the man's various antics and pranks. Both of us need to know to get through this if Stan ever wants to move through his past and if I ever want to help him to it, we need the answer to this question more than anything else.

"He reminded me too much of myself." I can't help the way my green eyes widen in shock. Isn't that kind of an insult, I mean I've always thought that Stan was much better than his father in almost every single situation. Maybe I am a little biased, but I thought that everyone could agree with me there. He doesn't lack self-control as Randy does, but I suppose his family probably had a better idea of his personality than I did in certain ways. I knew Stan as a friend, but they knew him as a son and a brother. Those are two entirely different things. "With the way, he treated commitment, the way he reacted when he got in trouble, the way he handled conflict. Hell, he even looked just like me."

"He was nothing like you," I tell him strictly but I don't hear Stan agreeing with my statement beside me which is concerning. It must be strange watching two people talk behind your back while your standing right there watching the entire thing.

"He wasn't a clone, that's for sure," Randy states blandly, shoving an empty beer can off of the glass coffee table in front of him with the bottom of his covered foot. "But that doesn't mean he didn't take after me at least a little bit. He didn't have all of my unlikeable traits, but he did have a few. The only difference between the two of us was that he was aware of them, unlike me."

"Well, at least you're finally recognizing all of your flaws," I grumble in a snarky tone, it's a good thing that Randy is clearly exhausted from god knows what. Stan stifles a laugh that's trying to escape through his lips by covering his mouth with the back of his hand at my back-handed statement. "Stan had self-control over what he said and did," I state because he did and I think every single last person in the tight messy room knows that.

"I know that. And I envied him for it more than anything else. I tried to have self-control over my actions, but it just seemed like whenever I did shit would just continue to hit the fan. I gave up a little while after his mother and I divorced at having any form of self-control. That's when I really started to let my jealousy towards him show by treating him like a piece of shit, and goddammit I regret it more than almost anything else."

"Wait, you started to do and say the things you did to him because you were jealous? That doesn't make any sense." I ask clearly confused by the mind-boggling confession.

"Sure it does. You just need to think about it." He states blankly, refusing to look at me as he grabs another empty tin beer can and puts it with the other one in a sad attempt to make the room look tidier.

"He was similar to you, but he had something in his life that you didn't. Control, and it seemed like it came to him naturally so you mistreated him for your own self-image?" I try to confirm after swallowing thickly at the load of information.

"I didn't think it came to him naturally, I knew he worked for it. It was the perseverance that came to him naturally. He worked for controlling his relationships and actions, I tried to but just automatically gave up. That's what I was the most jealous of." That does make sense, there were certainly times when Stan lacked thinking before acting with his actions. However, those times were very rare and whenever they occurred he was apologetic about it. "I thought it was unfair that he had all the things I didn't, even if he was so similar to me. Talent, smarts, awareness. So I took all my frustration out on him because of it without even thinking it was wrong. It wasn't until he died when I realized that was wrong."

"Do you blame yourself?" I wonder, the weight of my words weighing down his frame with thousands of pounds.

"It was his choice to overdose, not mine. I don't feel completely innocent though. The two of us didn't really end things on a, particularly happy note. And I wasn't always a great father."

"That's the understatement of the year," I grumble and Stan doesn't laugh, but I can sense the small turn of the corners of his lips beside me.

"He always implied that I wasn't, and his sister would just say it directly to my face. But I was in denial, it's too late now it feels like. She's moved out of the house and he's...gone. And I know that neither one of them will be coming back."

"You don't know that, Shelly could if she wanted to." I try to tell him, grasping onto anything that might be helpful at this point.

"Have you ever met my daughter? There's no way she would want to." He snickers and Stan shrugs, his blue irises glancing around the area that seems so familiar to him but also not at all at the same time.

"How did you know you weren't a great father?" I try changing the subject because I can practically rake my fingers through the darkness that is falling over the space around us at this point.

"How couldn't I know? All I did was embarrass him and hurt him, that's not the sort of thing that gets you on the dad of the year list." At least he's finally self-aware. This is nothing like the Randy I used to know who refused to recognize his damaging actions. It may have taken his son's death and his daughter's abandonment, but maybe he's finally trying to change. I wouldn't forgive him quite yet though, you can't automatically make up for awful things just because you feel bad about them and he needs to understand that more than anything else right now.

"If he were still here today, would you apologize and try to do better?"I exchange a casual glance with Stan next to me that only lasts a few seconds because I don't want to my staring at the empty spot next tome cause his slouched father to grow suspicious. However, even if I did stare for a long time it's clear that in the state he's in Randy wouldn't really care to notice.

"Of course I would. I'm just scared I wouldn't know how to." He breathes out depressingly, running a hand through dark unmaintained air.

"It shouldn't be that hard." For someone like me who has grown comfortable with the idea of admitting I was wrong and apologizing to them (Under the right circumstance.), it's not that hard because I've moved on from getting all butt-hurt and upset when I actually need to say 'I'm sorry' to someone. However, for someone like Randy who has along way to go before he grows comfortable with the idea of apologizing, it's pretty difficult. So as soon as those words fall from my chapped lips, I'm quick to realize how they could be perceived the wrong way.

"My son is dead, how the hell am I supposed to tell him that I'm sorry if I can't even see him anymore?" He growls and I sigh through my nose thickly.

"You're scared," I tell him and he tilts his head upwards towards me with wide offended eyes.

"I'm not scared! It's just impossible to apologize to someone when it's far too late." He exclaims defensively.

Both Stan and I understand that he thinks that it is. Hell, if I were in the position he is in right now that's what I would believe. He doesn't know that his son is still in the same exact room as the two of us as we're speaking face to face. He's listening in on this entire conversation, trying to deliver this letter to his dad quickly only for the whole thing to become a twenty-minute long conversation that's lasting far too long now. I think the two of us can only take so many reminders of childhood-trauma and the smell of thick liquor for so long.

How can he know that Stan is currently standing right beside me, staring into him with heavy eyes that hold so many emotions in his deep pupils they practically spill over the rims like an over-flowing bucket. And it's conflicting because I can't just simply tell him that it's not too late, it wouldn't make any sense and I could be sent to a mental hospital for saying my best friend has been resurrected as a ghost. Hey there, I'm here with your dead son who's currently a ghost! You can't see him because only I can but here's this letter he wrote you only a few hours ago because that sounds totally realistic!

Sorry, but I'm not going to just say that so easily and risk being sent back to the psychiatric ward.

"It's not too late, visit his grave and tell him. I know it won't be the same thing, but at least you'll get closure from it." I look to turn my head away to look at my best friend who seems to be slightly more relaxed than before. He senses my stare as he glances back towards me curiously much like a big puppy dog. "And in some weird way, I know he will too."

Stansmiles at me after my kind words, which I gladly return in a casual secret way. Even though my lips only twitch at the corners, you can tell that it's genuine as it meets my eyes instead which hasn't happened in what feels like forever.

"What if..." Randy starts but I'm soon to cut him off.

"If you keep asking 'what if' you'll never be able to move on and come closer to becoming a better person," I tell him and he only stares, but given the deep-meaning expression embedded deep on his features that remind me so much of his son's in this moment. I can tell that he finally trusts me.

"Ask him to reach out to Shelly too, it wouldn't be fair if he didn't try to fix things with her." Stan offers, tapping my shoulder gently as his translucent flesh sinks through my own for a brief moment.

"You're going to reach out to Shelly too, right? It would only be fair if you got closure with both kids and not just one." I ask under Stan'srequest which causes him to straighten out his shoulders slightly so they're less tense. I can tell he's still anxious, and even if he isn't as much as when we first arrived here at this location. He's still clearly somewhat unsettled by the enviroment that holds so many shitty violent memories.

"Of course, I will. If she responds to my calls."

"I'm sure she will eventually, you just need to give her time and space."

"Will do." He stands up from his spot on the couch suddenly after saying this and gives me a look that can only be described as grateful.

"You're a good kid, Kyle." He tells me trying his best to smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"I try." Is all I can respond with. I suddenly feel an overwhelming amount of guilt run through my veins that almost causes me to bend over and hurl it's so strong. He doesn't even know, he doesn't even know that I could have saved his son. I could have been there more, listened more, maybe even arrived at his mother's house earlier in time so he didn't take those goddamned pills. I could have kept Stan here just a little longer so he could get help, but I didn't.

Randy is oblivious to the change in my emotion, however, Stan is quick to pick up on it as he's been getting used to the flow of my emotions ever since we were kids. His eyebrows knit together and he attempts to nudge me delicately with his shoulder in a way to comfort my shifted nerves. "Are you okay, Ky?"

"I'm not perfect," I mutter quietly, in both a response to Stan's worry and an extension on the last sentence I told his father who's still in front of me. I know that for Randy this is probably just some casual form of small-talk that connects to what he told me about being a good kid. But Stan knows that this is far more complicated than that. He knows that me saying, 'I'm not perfect' is not just me talking about myself at this moment, but me talking about myself as a whole. He also knows that not excelling in whatever the task comes to is one of my biggest insecurities above almost everything else. That sentence holds so many meanings and he knows that he's one of the only people who do. But there's nothing he can say or do in his current form that would help me.

Him being a ghost just proves to me that I messed up, he would be a human if I had been a better friend. A perfect friend.

"We've all made our mistakes in life. But lucky for you, you're young and you'll still have the chance to fix them." Randy tells me, acting like this is the best advice he's given in a long time. It honestly probably is, and even though it doesn't fix the problem. It's enough to bring a little bit of light to my dark dilated eyes. That's the most sympathy he can show, and I appreciate him for it. I haven't yet forgiven him, and I don't know if I can after what he put Stan through over the past eighteen years but I'm more open to it now. More importantly, I think Stan is also more open to it compared to before, and even though I have no idea what he wrote about in that letter I can only assume he elaborated on the possible forgiveness. That's what's the most important out of this whole event.

"That letter he gave wanted me to give you, you should read it," I instruct him as he starts to open one of the paper envelopes, it's one that contains the drawing. That's why I mentioned him reading the letter, although he probably would have just figured that part out himself eventually. If I'm being honest, I don't really know what the sketch Stan created is but he does seem pretty proud given the way he's standing with a somewhat proud grin that spreads across his pale lips. His father pulls the sheet of paper out and breathes in heavily once he sees what it is.

"It's a self-portrait." He informs me and turns it around so I can see. It's really well done for being created in such a small amount of time, sure it's probably not his best work but it's good enough to be given to someone as a gift. I can see the small scribbles of Stan's sloppy handwriting on the back of the paper which Randy starts to read aloud. "'To Randy, I know you don't have many pictures of me around your house so I made you one myself you can hang up where ever you'd like. I hope you like it. Love, Stanley."

"You really did mean a lot to him, even towards the end of his life," I assure him and he nods shakily clenching the portrait along with the letter.

"He always meant a lot to me, even if I didn't show it. He was my son,and I really did love him." He takes a moment to stare at the portrait a while longer before finally telling me, "I'll make it up somehow."

"I'm sure you will." I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear before backing towards the front door. I exchange one more shy glance with Stan who seems just as grateful as his father is in this moment of time. "I should get going, but I'm glad the two of us talked, Randy."

"I am too and have a fun gap-year. Don't get into too much trouble."He teases but I only snicker as I open the front door and begin to step out, Stan's translucent figure following quickly behind me. Even if he did just now leave things on a happy note with his dad doesn't mean he still wants to be in his shit hole of a house for much longer.

"Yeah, I won't. Bye." I state blandly, not really having any cheesy farewells or cheery goodbyes to offer. I think my dry closing will work for this scenario, and it's what brings the whole thing to a close right before Stan decides to speak up and also wish his farewells.

"Goodbye, Dad." He mutters softly before the steel front door closes gently behind us.

And I can't help but notice he called him 'dad' one last time.

\--

Stan's Second Letter

Dear Randy,

I know that this is going to be really hard for me to write, especially because it feels like I have so much to say that I'm unable to cram into just one letter for you.

I could sit here for hours just writing to you, telling you about the effect you had over me at times, good and bad. Or maybe revisiting all of the memories that the two of us shared while I was growing up throughout the years.

But I won't because I feel like it would take me days to write, and neither one of us has that amount of time on our hands.

I'm going to say some things that might offend you even if I don't want them to. But I really need to get them off of my chest before I never can. I don't think it would be fair to either one of us if I kept them to myself. So I'm going to pour my heart out as much as I can even if we both hate it.

We didn't leave things off well last time I saw you. We got into a massive fight and I know we both said things that the two of us will always regret. At first, I thought it was only your fault, but as time passed I slowly started to understand that you and I both said and did things that were unfair and hurtful. I never wanted a terrible fight to be our last exchange before I passed away, and it hurts me just to think that it was.

I had no idea what we were even fighting about at first. It took me a little while to realize that it wasn't about anything in particular, but instead just everything that the two of us dealt with and struggled with within our relationship. So I want to just briefly write about those things so you could understand my side of the story better, even if I can't tell you in person.

It's no secret that the two of us were a lot of like at times but then also very different during others. I could never tell if I took after you or not because of how rough things always seemed to be between the two of us in my teenage years.

When I was a child, I guess I just thought that your behavior was normal. I believed that all dads acted the way you did. But as I started to grow older and realize that that wasn't the case, I think it really hit our relationship hard.

After the divorce, we really strayed away from each other in more ways than one. There was even a period of time where I didn't see you one time for months on end. It was like you left the grid for a long period of time with no contact with anyone around you.

I never told you but that scared me to no explanation. I was worried when you didn't call or text me for an entire two months. And the worst part was when you came back around you were like a completely different person I couldn't recognize.

Before, you made irresponsible decisions that you blamed on other people in the end if you had the chance, but you weren't really mean to me oranyone else. But after that expanded period of time, it felt like something in you changed.

You were more aggressive with me and belittled me more often and for a long time, I also thought that was normal. I thought that it was just some symptom of growing up in front of you and then the classic not approving of how I was handling things in my life. I do think that was definitely part of it, however after talking to friends I now realize that maybe it wasn't all of it.

It's not normal to dread coming home some days because you're just so worried that you're going to be picked on by your own father like a bully stealing your lunch money in elementary school. And it'scertainly not normal to feel inferior to almost everything because of his words that hurt even if you don't act as they do.

I mentioned earlier that I'm a lot like you in certain ways. I think both of us have had hard times controlling our emotions and we tend to turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms to handle them which hurts the people around us even if we don't mean to. But the difference between us is that I know and understand that I do that, it's a bad habit of mine that I've always hated and tried to improve. But you don't know that you do that on the other hand. Which is fine, you don't have to because I'm telling you right now.

I'm telling you because even though we've been through a lot of different events that were damaging to our relationship, I still care about you. And because I do I want you to improve. I know that both of us tend to need to be liked by as many people as we want, but I realized far too late that going through that worry is going to make you miserable. I don't want you to be miserable, Dad.

Because that is no way to feel, trust me I would know. But with that being said, I now no longer think that I'm weak like you've always made me out to be. I put up with so much for so long, and even if I gave up too soon doesn't mean that I'm not strong. I put up with so much pain for so long, and I really do think that deep down you were proud of me for keeping my chin up.

I remind you of yourself, and I think that might have gotten in the way of expressing that you were proud of me because of your own self-worth and doubt problems. But despite this, You're a good person at heart, and even if sometimes you were rough, loud, and mean at times doesn't mean that you're a terrible person. There were parts where you were lacking as a father but I know that there were also parts where I Was lacking as a son.

I now know my mistakes, and someday I think you will know yours.

And because of that, I forgive you.

I forgive you for the way you handled my emotions and the way you pressured me into doing things I wasn't comfortable with. Because I know that deep down you were also scared and didn't really know what you were doing. And if you can start to change for the better and be a better father to my sister, then I'll respect you. Because it's never too late to fix things.

Try to do the things that I never had the chance to, realize your mistakes and flaws before it's too late. Because when you do I really think things will start to look up when you're least expecting them to, Dad.

-Stan


End file.
